The Recreational Saviour
by Me2468
Summary: High School AU. Destiel. The Winchesters are new (nothing unsurprising; they're always the new kids), and so they are blissfully unaware they have walked in to the biggest one manned mission in history, led by none other than Castiel Novak. Rating might change to M later.
1. New City

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural.**

**A/N Hi, this is my first attempt at a Destiel, or in fact a supernatural fan-fic. =). I wanted to try and jazz up *jazz hands* the sort of scenario of the typical American High school Au by adding a plot away from all that, and not making Cas the awkward shy kid. He'll still have the traumatising childhood, that comes in with the package of every au, but hopefully, you won't be able to guess it ;)**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 1- New City

* * *

Dean Winchester woke in the fourth motel room of the year, with his head at the foot of the bed. This was how Dean liked to remind himself that he had to remember something, the night before. For example, the year before, he choose to sleep the wrong way round to remember to buy milk, and the day before that, he had to be the wrong way round so that when he woke up, he would remember that it was his birthday.

But that day was neither Dean's birthday, nor a time in which they had run dry of milk. And so, the boy hung his head off the edge of the bed in order to remind himself why the night before he had chosen to sleep at the other end.

It was only after he could hear the blood pounding in his ears that he did indeed remember that there was nothing to recollect and that instead there had been a vomit like stain at the head of the bed which had made him elect his current sleeping position, yesterday night.

He lifted his head to take in his surroundings, and realised belatedly how stuffy the room was. Suddenly aggravated by his covers, Dean tried to throw them off with various wild movements with his legs and muttered a quiet "Son of a Bitch," when the attempt was futile and he merely wasted energy and accumulated heat. With a final groan, he succeeded, and promptly fell from the lumpy bed. This time his cuss was with a stronger gusto. Again, he aligned his head, the same way a dog would remove water from its ears. In his line of sight he could see into the open bathroom where his younger brother Sam was brushing his teeth with unrivalled ferocity.

The teenager then remembered that, although there had been an uncompromising stain, there had also been a second reason for Dean's upside down-ness.

School.

Shit.

The watch on his left wrist (not the right, right wristed watches resist writing efficiency), read quarter to seven. Dean sighed his head into the carpet. Trust Sam to be up this early on the first day of a new school. A new school that wasn't even three blocks away. The carpet became damp with his saliva. After what seemed like a lifetime, he pushed himself up. His watch now read five past seven. To show his displeasure at Sam's earliness, he threw his pillow at him when he left the shower.

"Where's Dad?" he asked Sam. Sam typically knew all the answers to all of Dean's trivial problems.

Sam gave his a disparaging look. He drew in a breath, clearly about to give _his if you were awake earlier_ speech, when their father walked in, a hunting bag slung across his back. John Winchester dumped the carrier on to the floor and began to speak in a generally light tone:

"Glad to see you conscious Dean. I've been fucking around town for about an hour and a half for some half decent rounds [Dean continued to listen as he brushed his teeth with his tongue attempting to guide the toothbrush and his hands opening the motel's complimentary razor from its packet. On the other hand, Sam brushed his hair with the same energy he had shown his teeth, to drown out his father]. In the end I had to buy from a bartender."

Neither boys questioned what he had been doing at a bar at seven in the morning.

John fished around in his suitcase for a tie and began to unravel it while using his ear to stick up his shirt collar. He continued, "I wanted to stay for your first day at least, but it seems the season's ending, and if we want to profit…" His eyes wondered off slightly abashed at having to leave so soon.

He managed to make eye contact with his youngest, who was glaring daggers. Unfortunately for Sam, he didn't look particularly threatening, with a hairbrush tangled in his unrespectable long hair.

Dean exited the bathroom and slung an arm around his brother's shoulders. "We'll be fine, right Sammy," Dean pushed Sam's glower into a half smile with one hand "It's nothing we haven't handled before. You've gotta do, whatever you have to do. And yeah, we do it all the time so, how long will you be gone?"

Dean's father mused his hair while fixing his tie into a Half Windsor. "I don't know, Dean. The season ends in under three weeks, but I'll check in on you in between that."

"You don't need to bother, if it's too much trouble," Sam mutinously muttered. His dad just sighed.

"I need to go now; I found a couple of fellow hunters who are leaving at half past." John often hunted in a pack for security.

Dean embraced his father, tightly. The moment seized him. "Can I come? At the weekend, I mean." John loosened his grip slightly.

"Dean, you know I would, but Sam [the person in question was doing up his laces and added a negative comment, not unlike to his last one]. Bobby's too far away, really, and I wouldn't want to take him with us." There had always been a silent agreement between the two eldest Winchesters; Sam's safety and perhaps naivety when it came to violence, was the highest priority.

And with a swift handshake to Sam, the boys' father had left.

For the third time, Dean looked at his watch. If Sam had woken up at a respectable time, the exchange between John and the boys would have made them late. As it happened, they still had half an hour to kill, before they could even think of walking at a snail's pace to school, and have an extra quarter of an hour to show themselves around.

Dean dressed and threw himself on the bed. He hated the idea of being on time, or God forbid- being early, on principle.

"Dean?"

He grunted in response.

"I don't think you have any shoes." This comment deigned Dean to make a more comprehensible sound.

"Wha'?" A _slightly _more comprehensible sound.

"You've only packed one shoe of each pair, and I think Dad took the shoes you wore here as a backup."

_Fucking great_, thought Dean. This rather ruined his plans. His plans being to walk into school as the unidentifiable most attractive Mother-Fucker there, and then mess around with one of the cheerleaders behind the bleachers. At the end of the day, he would walk away, with an envy filled gaggle of gossipers, wondering who he was, and surreptitiously brushing past to feel the material of his jacket (and his chest beneath that).

This, of course, is the exact story of all his other High School expeditions in one.

However, it was going to be hard coming off as the _most attractive Mother-Fucker there _and not the crazy homeless kid, with odd shoes (and thinking about it now, he was sure he packed two lefts and left the rights strung up on a dare), or socks, or bare feet.

To be fair, Crazy Homeless Kid did describe him somewhat.

Sam shoved a $20 note under his nose, for "new shoes," which now meant Dean had to walk down the road in socked feet and Sam had to listen to Dean complain about walking in socks down the road.

"Look, another lot of water. If I wasn't paying very close attention I would've…" and there his speech ended as this thirteen year old brother shoved him into a puddle.

Dean had to cut his visit to the shop short as Sam incessantly tugged on his arms, for now they were on the verge of lateness. For a minute or two, he deliberated over a black pair of converse and a blacker pair of some obscure brand, only to find that Sam had already spent the money on a pair of cheap off-white loafers.

And so on the first day of school, Dean Winchester went in his traditional leather jacket, tight fitting dark jeans and second hand eggshell loafers, the left one of which had a dark blood stain on the inside (Sam claimed to have thought it was a pattern, the Bitch). That should have been the first warning of the shitty acts to play out.

* * *

**A/N**** Castiel next chapter :)**


	2. School Brawl

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 2 – School Brawl

* * *

Waterbelle School was a three schools in one kind of package and therefore the Winchesters would be sharing it. The building itself was advertised as pre 19th century, but that was hard to imagine with all the brilliantly white plaster walls, several of which had speakers set into them. In fact, the only evidence that this was not falsely advertised was a grand oak in the front courtyard, which had a thin rope circling it. Behind the limited security, stood a plaque which read of the age and planter of the tree.

Sam looked mildly interested in checking this out, although Dean did note, there was also a pretty blonde girl absorbing the information, who was more likely to be the object of Sam's curiosity.

Dean left his brother to enter the school and attempt to find the reception (hopefully Sam would score and be toured around by the girl). He asked a few people, most of which sniggered and told him it was to the left of the swimming pool. It took him 21 seconds to figure out there was no pool.

Eventually he managed to navigate himself and received the timetable for the week. Monday, period one was French. _Bon_, he thought, impressing even himself with his knowledge of the word.

When he entered (slightly late, never on time, but not late enough to receive a detention on the first day), it became clear he wasn't the only new kid.

"…is Benny. And I am Mr Turner, not Mr Effing-Turnip," the teacher ended, glaring around the seventeen and eighteen year olds. "You can sit there." The lad who was supposedly 'Benny' sat at the desk at the back right hand corner. Mr Turner breathed in again, clearly ready to start the lesson, when Dean interrupted him, by walking in. "Are you new too?" the professor questioned, irritably, as though Dean was just about the biggest annoyance to come into existence. He did not wait for an answer. "Well…" he gestured at Dean.

"Dean."

"This is the class. Class this is Dean. I'm Mr Turner, not Mrs Effing- Turnip. You can sit there." His hand pointed somewhere near Benny, and Dean, for a moment thought he had forgotten he had already allocated the seat, until Dean realised there was a spare desk to the right of the other new kid.

The class had clearly come back from a spring break, and were agitated to give everyone one in the class a play by play account of everything that had happened. For what it was worth, Mr Turner was a pretty cool guy, if a bit of a lazy teacher. He handed out French word-searches and informed them he was nursing a hangover, as he drunk from a metal flask. God, did he hate having to be the first one to take the students.

After a good 30 seconds, Dean felt a tap on his shoulder.

"I'm Benny." Dean studied his face, to discover he was mildly attractive, with a well-defined jaw covered in tick dark blond stubble. From a foot or two away, he couldn't determine the colour of his eyes, but he looked generally pleasant enough. About a month ago, Dean had decided he was bisexual.

In a bid to say something smarter than purely "_I'm Dean_" he replied, "I know. And you probably know I'm Dean, but what you don't know is…" he struggled for a moment, inwardly cursing himself for not going with the simpler introduction "I have tentacles for legs."

Dean sighed at himself.

And that is how Dean Winchester became friends with Benny Lafitte.

The rest of the period went smoothly, and so did second period (home economics), where the two managed to secure seats next to each other again. They paid little attention to the class and instead talked about whatever it is teenage boys talk about together- something vulgar, I imagine.

Third period, however, was a different story. Benny had succeeded in getting a place in advanced algebra, while Dean had plain old algebra.

He dawdled to class, not wanting to be without a friend. Unfortunately, this meant that by the time he was there, the whole class had already split up into pairs, and Dean was left awkwardly standing in the corner, looking for a face of someone who would be willing to take him on. Miss Talbot, the algebra teacher, pushed him toward two girls in deep conversation and laugh-ation, and muttered vaguely, that she hoped he might be able to make them focus on the work at hand. Miss Talbot was not like Mr Turner, in any way. She was a very pretty, for a teacher, with a high traditional English accent. Her nails, where, she pushed him, stabbed him in the back.

Dean said "Hey, how you doin'?" (Partly because they were attractive and partly because he wanted to know what was so damn funny) to the girls, who stopped their giggling, to look up at Dean, only to resume it again.

"Sorry, sorry," breathed the red head, when Dean had straddled a seat in front of them. "I was just… we were… well Jo thought you looked like a young Matt Leblanc, with the jacket and everything, and then you said that so…" She smiled politely as the laughing subsided. "You're Dean, right? I'm Charlie."

"Bradbury," interrupted the blonde girl. "Charlie Bradbury. I'm Jo."

"Harvelle," added Charlie. "Joanna Beth Harvelle." And then the two snorted again at some inside joke.

Despite the rather ditzy first impression the two had made on Dean, he found them to be quite interesting, for the rest of the period. Charlie, for one, was obsessed with Lord of the Rings, which was an appealing quality to Dean. Jo proved to be quite smart and far too violent.

Dean finally understood why the pair were so close to laughing all the time.

"So where'd you move in from Dean?" Charlie twirled the pencil in her fingertips, as Jo muttered the answers for her to write down. Charlie ignored her, which was just as well, because Joanna's cleverness did not stretch to algebra, and so most of the answers were wrong.

Dean thought about the question for a moment. "Nowhere in particular," he shrugged.

"Oh the fancy land of _Nowhere in Particular_, if only I had the resources to go there, but I heard, from my personal slave, that one must have thirteen pigs and alas, I have but a dozen, maybe if… OW JO!"

Jo held the pencil in triumph, having bitten her friend to retrieve it. Having reclaim her prize, she seemed disinterested in algebra, and began drawing a very detailed picture of a penis on the text book they were supposed to be working from.

Charlie brushed the blood onto Jo's top, and continued, "Maybe if I added Jo to my flock, they might let me pass."

"Herd," Jo interrupted, her face contorted in concentration of the penis. "It's a herd of pigs. You're thinking of sheep. A flock of sheep. However, sheep are also in a herd. But, you can also call a group of pigs a sounder or a drove. Unless you had piglets, in which case…" Dean vaguely wondered why Charlie didn't cut her off. If it had been Sam, Dean would have told him to shut up the second he corrected him.

Dean was thankful that they hadn't pressed the subject of his previous living arrangements.

At lunch, Dean found Benny again. Advanced Algebra had not been as lively as basic algebra; they had had a pop quiz.

Swiftly, he introduced Benny to the girls as they sat down at the same lunch table. He could tell Benny had no idea what to say, and it didn't help that the females were snorting into their food, and Dean was attempting to hide his smile, when Charlie said something rude in Klingon.

Benny sat with his phone as the trio talked, about, well, everything. It was a while after his battery had died, and he had been tapping at it pretending to not be bored when he thought of a conversation topic. He poised he question at Jo, who was the only one who hadn't taken a gigantic mouthful of food. "Who is everyone? Anyone we," he gestured to Dean "Should be avoiding?"

Jo took a gulp of milk, presumably to clear her rasping throat. Charlie dragged herself out of her glee to answer him.

"Here we go. If you look behind me, yeah them, they're the dicks of the school. Avoid at all costs." She prodded Dean who was having a private moment with his burger instead of listening to the people tour. "You've got Crowley -who I actually quite like, but he's still a dick- Alastair Something-or-other, who was voted most likely to become an Azkaban Torturer. And, Azazzealle? Azarel? Arsezael?"

"Azezle?" joined in Jo, "Ezazeal? Whatever, he's a prat."

Benny and Dean looked at the table where there were indeed three guys, one of which was stabbing his knife into the table as though they both deserved revenge. His face showed utter elation. His neighbour, seemed bored by his proceedings and was using his utensils in a perfect manner. This guy looked pretty reproachful at his friend. The third was hunched over a piece of paper scribbling down what were no doubt evil plans.

"There are some guys ["And Lilith," Jo added], and Lilith, who you should avoid, but they're in other years, so they shouldn't bother you too much."

"The jocks are over there," Jo cocked her head to a rowdy table. "They are not complete dicks. Only, like the shaft. But once you're on their list, you don't get off, so we like to advise to keep on the down low with them."

"The Jocks, Castiel and Meg," added Charlie.

"Yeah, they're not part of the football team, but I think they're attached to it. If you float my boat."

Nobody appeared to realise this was the wrong idiom.

Again, Dean and Benny examined a table in closer detail. About half of the football team were making loud noises and big gestures in relation to how their holiday went. Many hip thrusts ensued. One or two were completely engrossed in what their team members were recounting, but the rest were completely obsessed with eating food. The girl, Meg they presumed, was loud enough to hear from where they were, but she didn't appear as vibrant as her comrades. The boy without any football memorabilia, Castiel probably, was listening half-heartedly to Meg. Benny noted the guy's lunch portion was a lot smaller than anybody else's and pondered upon why the lunch supervisors might hate him.

And that was all that was noted by the two boys.

Charlie went on, "Over there is some of the girls. Most of them are a bit bitchy, but I think they're good people in the end, which is all that counts in the end, I s'pose. Tessa, Lisa and Ruby are the one's you'll hear the most about. And everybody else, just kind of exists. That answer your question?"

Benny nodded while Dean looked over at the groups which mainly included females. _Not bad_.

#

Lunch ended, and Dean had to say goodbye to his new friends, who all had health class; Dean had a free period and he fully intended on spending it acquainting himself with the school. He could not remember a time in which he had wanted to do this. At each school, he always had that nagging feeling they wouldn't be there long. But of course, this did seem different, for one, there had been no messing around behind the bleachers yet, and people were yet to come stroke his chest 'accidentally', and so Dean decided, that this would be the one school, he would experiment with the other 'side' of his personality.

He lost himself in his mind, and therefore walked the entire perimeter of the school without taking it in one bit. Dean scowled. It was a scorching day, and walking around an entire building was practically suicidal. The leather jacket was pulled off, so his was left in a dark T-shirt. As he wiped the sweat from his hands onto his jeans, he noticed a familiar figure walking up to the entrance of Waterbelle.

"Dad!?"

John Winchester had not heard the exclamation and was altogether surprised when he found his eldest son grabbing onto his elbow. "Dean. It's your brother."

The colour quickly drowned from Dean's face. His father did not look upset, though, or worried. "What about Sam?"

"He was in a fight. Pretty bad from what I heard. The principle said he was bleeding from the temple." Confusion filled the air. It was unlike Sam to get in a fight. It was especially unlike Sam to get in hurt in one.

They began to march quickly. "Will he be ok?"

"Sam, yes. Us, no. The boy has a broken arm and they might make us pay the medical bills." John's jaw was set.

They had reached the outside of Principle Rosen's office. In the reception area there was also a relatively young man with longish blond hair and light stubble. He was talking to Castiel, the boy who hung out with the jocks.

John Winchester cleared his throat. The unidentified man looked over to him, eyes full of malice. They sized up one another. From this angle, Dean could tell this guy was not the father of anyone in this school. God, he didn't even look twenty one, much less someone with a thirteen year old son (or daughter, Dean supposed, that could explain why Sam hadn't gone full attack mode). His enraged father had clearly noticed this to, yet before he could say anything on the subject, the man spoke up:

"Are you Sam's father?" Castiel fiddled with his mobile phone, attempting to look inconspicuous.

"Yes," came the reply as John drew himself up to his full height. "You're far too young to be the aggravator's father."

"Aggravator, interesting. I know many eye witnesses who would certainly disagree." His fingers lingered next to his pocket, where the Winchesters noticed a slight bulge where his wallet undoubtedly was.

John and Dean's fists clenched. Principle Rosen walked out and the man's voice jumped out to her.

"Please don't hit me! Like father, like son don't you see?" The principle's eyes certainly noticed the still clenched fists of the Winchesters, but she was also quick to pick up on the nonchalance of Castiel's face. The Winchesters relaxed their hands but had trouble clearing their faces of fury.

Principle Becky Rosen had a high, and rather bubbly voice, and she did not sound or look suited to these kinds of situations. She was very smiley as she requested the presence of "Mr Winchester and Mr Novak."

"Can't I see my brother?" interjected Dean.

"No," she smiled, before closing the door.

Dean threw himself against the wall, arms folded and earned himself a reproachful glare from the receptionist (the walls were pre-19th century!), but honest to God, Dean didn't give a shit.

Castiel also backed himself against the wall next to Dean. He spoke, "I'm sorry about my brother. Lucifer likes to tease everyone."

Dean almost jumped in shock. How could a teenager have such a low raspy voice? "Lucifer?" Dean made a point by letting out a resentful sigh "Really living up to the expectations." His face fell back into a scowl.

"You're Dean, aren't you?" He waited for an answer except it soon became evident he wasn't going to give one, so he ploughed on, "I'm Castiel."

"I know." His answer came out a lot ruder than he meant it to. Dean did not apologize. Instead, he turned his head to look at Castiel who had since taken out his flip phone. Pshhh, flip phones. Dean wanted to make some half ass comment about it, however his eyes took in the rest of his appearance. Castiel's clothes looked pretty fashionable, and comparatively new, but Dean had been on the road long enough to know the tell-tale signs of handed down clothes. Besides, Dean didn't want to be the douchebag that made fun of the working class kid. A few of the labels were designer, and so Dean's mind went on a rampage of possibilities. Perhaps Castiel was born a prince and ran away, explaining why his clothes were so nice, and his phone was so old (you'd have to get rid of your posh phone if you were a runaway prince). And this would also explain why his parents weren't here. Or it could be, Castiel's other brother, a mega pop star, had just died, and by wearing his clothes Castiel felt closer to him. Or Castiel robbed stores in protest of sweat shops.

Whatever the reason was, Dean felt his anger subdue at the Novak family, and managed to just concentrate it on Lucifer. Of course, the anger was still there so when he said, "Can I ask, why the weird names?" Castiel still flinched slightly.

"Religious Parents." Dean furrowed his eyebrows. Castiel did not look up from his phone as he continued "Names of angels."

Dean did not know how to carry on this conversation. Castiel was not half as easy to talk to as Benny or Charlie, or even Jo. "Well my name means Valley, in some old language, or it could mean 'chief of ten' in Latin."

"I know," said Castiel, finally pocketing his mobile and turning to face his classmate, "I read Latin. _Decanus_."

Dean breathed out through his teeth, and finally got a good look at Castiel's face. He had a well-defined nose and eyebrows and nice lips. His eyes shone bright blue. Dean tapped on the plaster walls, earning another murderous look from the receptionist. "Do you know what happened? Non-bias version please."

Castiel paused a moment, wondering what Dean was talking about, before, oh yes, the reason they were there. "It was Gabriel's fault."

"Gabriel? Like baby Jesus, Mary, Christmas, Gabriel?"

"He is named after the angel Gabriel, yes, who informed the Virgin Mary of her pregnancy, yes. Yes. Can I continue?" He awaited Dean's conformation. "Gabriel's always had a problem when it comes to a sugar deficiency. We do not understand what it is, but he becomes moody and more aggressive. He is normally quite average. I think Jess, was it? Well, a girl gave Sam some sort of candy and Gabriel asked for some, was refused and punched your brother. I know it sounds bad. I don't think its Gabriel's fault with the mood swings. It is much less your brother's error, though."

Dean nodded, not sure how to feel about this. "Where're your parents?"

"Work," Castiel answered. "But Lucifer's over eighteen so they let him come instead."

Dean wondered who would come for him and Sam, if his Dad was busy. Bobby, hopefully, but too often than not, the places they stayed were a couple hundred miles or so from Bobby's place. He played with the hem of his shirt.

Castiel continued, "Don't they normally make both parents come?"

With a small expel of breath, Dean said shortly "My Mom died, a while back," and prepared himself for an onslaught of condolences.

What he didn't expect was for Castiel to say "Knew it," under his breath, before starting on the aforementioned commiserations.

At that moment, the principle released the Winchesters and the Novaks from her chambers. Sam sported a great bandage on his forehead and a deep set scowl, while Gabriel (or at least who Dean assumed was Gabriel, a small boy with honey coloured hair), smiled, a lollypop between his lips, and an eye patch over his left eye. His right arm was done up in a make shift sling.

"Bye, Sam," the boy grinned, before turning to Winchester senior and apologizing perfunctorily.

The Novak family made a 180 degree turn and headed down the hall, not far enough for Dean to not hear, the two older ones talking about him.

"Yes the older one… definite daddy issues."

* * *

**A/N I am English so don't be afraid to PM me about any incorrect Americanisms (apart from colour, I just can't spell it without the U).**


	3. The Devil Within

**T/W: Abuse**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 3 – The Devil Within

* * *

Dean did not go straight to the motel straight after school ended. Sam had returned earlier, before the end of school, due to the incident. To be perfectly honest, Dean didn't want to face the argument that would between his two closest family members, or have to deal with any of the shit that came with it. His Dad would presumably be pissed at having to leave all of his belongings in the forest, not even one day after he had left, because his shit son had thrown a tantrum, and Sam would be annoyed and protest that it _wasn't his fault_ and that he _was just defending himself_. Sam never took responsibility. He took his time opening a new account at the library, which was pointless; they always moved with the closing of the hunting season. He tried to made a mind map of the town but found this just as futile as the attempt he had made with the school.

When he did arrive, it was to enter a quiet room, with only one participant- Sam. Dean's sibling was hunched over their shared laptop on his bed, making echoing noises in the room when he tapped on the keyboard.

"Where's Dad?" Dean asked, hoping his original thought was wrong.

"The Roadhouse," Sam replied. Dean looked slightly confused, so he went on to explain it was a bar.

"Are you alright, Sammy?" Dean had dropped his school bag and was now sitting cross legged in front of Sam.

Sam tried to think of something nonchalant to say, he really did, but what came out was "Me? You're the one who should be scared." They held each other's gaze for a few moments before Sam dropped his head down and restarted his typing.

With one hand, Dean closed the laptop. Sam started protesting, already knowing what Dean was going to make him do. "No, Dean. Dad's not even here yet_. He's not even fricking here yet Dean._ You can't do it alone. Get off. I SAID GET _OFF_, DEAN."

There was a sound of key against key hole. A more scratchy sound than one would normally find. The sound off someone who could not hold the key in place. It was this that made Sam go limp in Dean's grasp, and he allowed himself to be led to the bathroom. Dean barricaded the door from the outside; Sam obstructed it from within.

A metallic sound.

The door opened softly. Dean swore this was just his father's way of terrifying him, and it worked every time.

The figure of John Winchester seemed different when he was drunk. As a sober man, his thick chest and arms were straight, respectable and fearsome. But this fearsome, was so much more theoretical.

As a drunkard, his features were that of monsters.

And that is how Dean separated them.

For someone who had consumed alcohol so much that his hands shook, he managed to move with a certain lumbering grace. He grabbed two fistfuls of Dean's shirt and shoved him against the wall. Dean's head spun with the contact.

Sam remained silent. Dean prayed it would stay this way (he always had done, though).

His monster moved his hands up to the lapels of his shirt. He brought Dean closer and then slammed him back into the wall. The impact made Dean slide down the wall slightly, and after a second's relapse, remembered to keep his chip tucked into his neck to prevent lasting damage. There was no time to recuperate. The hands of the beast dragged him up again, before repeating his movements. He got into a rhythm. The beat of a brute.

The only sounds to be heard was that of man against brick, and the small moans Dean accidently let slip. And holy fucking shit, Dean's pulse must have been loud, for it was the only thing Dean could hear.

Sam made no noise. Just as well; people can go mad with an audience.

Dean had one mission; remain in eye contact. The savage may look like his father, he may have copied everything down to the way it felt when he touched Dean, but his eyes were unfocused and drunk. And this is how Dean separated them. When he closed his eyes, it almost felt as though it were his father's ragged panting, leaving the moist spittle across his chest. His father's arms raking him forward and back between wall and floor. That John Winchester was the man who wanted to hurt Dean.

Dean's father loved him. This was the monster that could sometimes rage control over him. Dean knew this. He knew everyone had this. He knew it didn't make you a bad person if you were weak.

His monster closed his eyes. Dean almost begged him to open them. Instead he allowed himself to loll his head back. When he made contact with the wall this time, he was unconscious within seconds.

Sam had never been able to separate them.

#

When Dean awoke, it was to a warm bed. He assumed Sam was asleep, as there was a long thin Sam shaped lump in his brother's bed. Distantly, he hoped it had been safe when he left the bathroom.

If there was pain, Dean did not notice it.

He twisted in his bed, to look where his Dad's bed was. Surprisingly, it was filled. John had not gone back to his tent. Again, remarkably, it was not filled with a man sleeping off his drunkenness.

Dean and his father stared at each other in the darkness. The elder's eyes were like a cat's, mystical, but sharp and alert. John had control.

His hand slowly stretched out to Dean. They were a good 4 ½ foot apart and so Dean had to meet him in the middle. John linked fingers with his son.

His speech croaked in the darkness, "I'm so sorry Dean. So fucking sorry." He continued to scold himself and beg for forgiveness, until his voice lost all power and his words became mere mouth movements.

Dean sat up. He was slightly nervous, but this was his father. The devil was back under lock and key.

The covers were thrown off slowly, as he made his way into his father's bed. The dark blonde hair dug itself into John's V-neck covered chest, as John went to rub concentric circles in the bruises he had caused upon Dean's scalp.

#

By seven am John had left, though Dean did not miss his warmth.

* * *

**A/N: I love all reviews and thrive on criticism. :)**


	4. Batman, of a Sort

**Trigger warning: Suicide**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 4 – Batman, of a Sort.

* * *

The next three weeks past in a monotone for Dean. His father had returned to his hunting, and his brother had been ignoring him since the morning after Monday's fiasco:

_Tuesday. _

"I'm not apologising to you Dean." Sam had been walking on the wall, two feet higher than Dean. "I am sorry for acting out against Gabriel, but I'm not gonna take responsibility for Dad kicking the shit out of you."

"Dad didn't do anything on purpose. You provoked him Sammy." Here Dean had stopped their walking to school, to face his brother. "You have to take some responsibility."

"No Dean, you have to realise that this is all Dad's fault. Normal fathers don't do this kind of shit, so why would it be my problem?"

Dean did not ponder over his brother's words, instead he pushed Sam off of the low wall. "Listen Sammy, Dad has been nothing but good to us, but sometimes you go and fuck things up and he wants to drink away the memory of your shitty existence, alright! So when I get beaten, it's not Dad I hate; it's you."

And they had been ignoring each other since.

So Dean's first three weeks in Waterbelle had been average to say the least. He had quickly ruined the chance of a friendship he had had with Benny when he had ignored him in classes. Benny had suddenly seemed a languid and uninteresting person.

Dean even cut the ties he had quickly formed with Charlie and Jo. The two girls were too brazen and obnoxiously loud. He often felt embarrassed by them.

Dean Winchester had slowly sunk into depression.

On the fourth Monday, Dean walked home after some god forsaken class. Sam was with Jessica.

There was silence, but his mind was blaring.

The weather was supposed to be edging closer to summer; it was almost May. Instead, the reality of it was a cold wind blustering through the town. Dean could not dodge the force of nature, and so drew his Dad's old jacket about him. The thin material did not help. Dean wondered vaguely if his father had done this on purpose; give his son the worst mother fucking jacket ever, just to spite Dean.

Dean frowned at himself. His walk fell to a dismal pace.

The old words of "My father loves me," sounded tinny and merely wishful in his head. Who could love a C-, a screw up or a desperate needy person? Hell, who could even like one. Dean didn't like himself much, which was a problem.

Dean had always had a logical mind. At nine years old, the swing bench in front of the motel of the month had snapped when he and his brother were playing an exuberant game of something or other. His first thought wasn't _Oh shit_ or some other nine year old alternative but instead _I could use the wood from the old shed to fix this_.

And so, when Dean realised he did not like himself, that nobody would ever like him, the solution came quickly. There was no faffing about or worries. Dean was a terrible excuse for a person. The world would be so much better off without him.

Dean had always thought that suicidal people must have something holding them back, someone telling them not to shoot. However Dean's mind was filled with clarity. It was like walking into a final battle rather than drowning. Drowning was the worst way to die, it showed so much desperation. Battle, was a willingness to cease, the earth had your permission to kill you. A valiant death.

John had been right; no shops around this town sold a single bullet. The Winchester wondered into bars with one thought on his mind.

The woman who sold him three rounds (not one, it would be too suspicious), had a name tag. _Ellen_. Her face went into a contracted smile. On the other hand, Dean made no effort to make pleasantries with the last person to see him.

The motel room was dark. He forgot to feel guilty that Sam would be the first person to find him. The bed was stripped as he searched for the hidden hand gun.

Dean wondered the most efficient way to end life. Through the chin perhaps? The side of the head? Should he try to make it complicated so Sam would suspect murder rather than have to face the horrible truth? That his bother did not want to live in a world with him. Through the heart then, perhaps. Or the front of the head, two hands. One finger on the trigger.

_**Bang.**_

Dean's world went dark as the door burst open and he was pushed onto the floor by a haphazard looking young man. The gun skidded out of reach.

This guy wore a khaki trench coat and had a mop of dark coarse hair. He sat up onto his haunches and gave Dean a soul piercing look with vibrantly blue eyes.

"What the _fuck_?" Dean said.

The man just stared at him. Dean thought it best to pull himself up to a standing position.

_Castiel?_ They hadn't made conversation in three weeks, unless you counted that time Castiel had thanked Dean for picking his pen up from the floor, but again that was at least a week beforehand.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Dean repeated his expletive, now completely insure of his emotions. Relieved? Yes. Pissed? Definitely. Confused? Bewilderingly so.

Castiel still had refrained from saying a word. He retrieved the gun from the floor as Dean sputtered, and unloaded it, slotting the bullets into one of his endless pockets. For good measure, he threw the gun out of the open window.

With all his strength, Dean hauled the other man up against the wall. To be honest the task did not require all his strength, as Castiel was sickly thin, and so the force made Castiel's knees buckle beneath him.

"I don't know who the _hell_ you think you are, but…" Dean's words were lost when his grip of Castiel's right arm was reluctantly relinquished and Castiel slapped him around the face.

"Hell Dean," Castiel's vocal chords reverberated around the room, and would have made more of an impact if Dean wasn't bent over clutching his cheek, swearing vibrantly. Dean raised his arms for another round, but Castiel pinned him down to the floor, effortlessly. He straddled Dean's stomach and pinned Deans' flailing arms down with his legs. "Hello Dean," he repeated.

Dean continued to struggled and grunt obscenities at his opponent.

"I'm here to save your life, Dean." He put more weight onto Dean's arms.

"Fuck you, man."

"Dean," Castiel sighed, "Suicide isn't the way."

Dean glowered.

"SAM," the black haired boy yelled, "You can come in now."

If Sam was surprised that his brother was being straddled by another teen, he didn't show it. Instead he ran over to Dean, eyes red rimmed.

Graciously, Castiel removed his person from Dean and then offered his hand to the boy on the floor. It went ignored.

"Dean," Sam embraced his older brother, tightly. Dean felt slightly claustrophobic, something he hadn't felt with Castiel; probably because of Sam's desire to touch him, instead of Castiel's violent pinning down. Dean didn't think anyone would want to touch him, willingly. Sam's touch burned him and he struggled away from it.

"What d'ya tell him?" Dean growled the question at Castiel.

"I told your brother that you were planning to commit suicide tonight." Castiel spoke in an almost monotone voice, because clearly this was ever so obvious.

"Is it true, Dean?" The youngest boy sounded high pitched and terrified of the answer.

And just like that, Dean felt the intense urge to kick the shit out of Castiel, for how he had broken this boy's heart. Dean could handle this on his own; he didn't need his kid brother worrying about his mental health. He would've allowed a trench-coat clad madman to attempt to save him, but dragging Sam in was a low blow.

Instead, he pushed his claustrophobic feelings to the side and dragged his Sam closer to him, no matter how his body was desperate to pry him away. Again, he forgot that Sam would have been left without him, and a corpse had he gone through with his attempt.

He didn't want to admit his intentions out loud, however it as clear that neither of the two men were planning on leaving the room, and Dean wanted answers. "How did you know?"

Sam hugged him tighter at the confession.

Castiel replied, "Psychology, Dean." He settled himself on the very edge of one of the beds.

"Psy….What, you're only like seventeen?! Don't dick me around."

"Then how do you propose I know?" Castiel's quick retort was met with silence. The brothers sat down on the opposite bed. "My mother was a psychologist."

Neither boy picked up on the past tense.

"So," stammered Dean. "What are you here for, exactly?"

"Well," said Castiel, talking to Dean quite condescendingly, "You were going to kill yourself, and I have stopped it. The customary thing would be to thank me."

Dean almost laughed out loud. Thank Castiel, the man who had prevented him from leaving this fucking earth, and had already put a strong guilt onto his shoulders at the thought of Sammy.

Castiel continued, "This has all been quite pleasant, but I have a drugs raid to be getting on with."

There was confusion in the room, but before any questions could be heard, Castiel had dragged Dean up by the forearm and whispered something into his ear. It was a very interesting one sided conversation but the author refuses to tell you what was said, as it would ruin the entire plot.

When Castiel had removed his lips from Dean's ear, Sam noted his brother looked different. Not physically, obviously, but his face showed an expression Sam could not, for the life of him, describe.

Castiel nodded at Dean, unaware or unfazed at their close proximity. "I must ask a favour of both of you."

"Anything," said Sam, far too quickly for Dean's liking.

"What?" The older Winchester spoke much slower.

"Do not speak of this to anyone."

Sam nodded, but this was not something Dean often complied with. He was perfectly happy to take the order if it had come with an explanation.

"No."

Castiel turned to him, "I knew you would say that."

Sighing, Dean rolled his eyes, "No, you didn't."

"Yes I did. You have an authority complex. You refuse to take orders without explanation purely because it offends you. You often say no, just to spite people and see what they will do. A politer alternative would be to ask _why_ rather than just decline, take that into consideration. This is all thrown out of the window with your father, because…"

"What the fuck are you talking about my father for?"

"Sorry, I forgot that I would be touching a nerve should I mention your father. My sincerest apologies Dean." The guy seemed pretty genuine and Dean didn't know what to make of it.

"Why then?" Dean spat out.

Castiel rubbed his nose, slightly downcast. "This is going to make me seem like an immoral person, but remember I could be standing by, doing nothing. You are not the first person I've saved Dean, and hopefully you shall not be the last. The truth is…I enjoy it. The swooping at the last minute and saving the day, oh so unexpected, ad if people knew… They would start assuming they would be saved, which is a lot of pressure and… I would just stop. There would be no more enjoyment. I want my identity to be protected, and I want the idea to remain unknown. Lives are in your hands, because I swear to God that if words leak out, I will leave everyone to fuck up their existence."

Dean nodded warily.

With a glance at his watch, and a mumble about the drugs raid, Castiel fled the room.

It wasn't just like that, that Dean's depression was cured, but for the first time he could see light at the end of the tunnel.

* * *

_**A/N Cheesy ending, I know. All reviews are appreciated! **_


	5. Tweets

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 5 - Tweets

* * *

Sam woke up at a respectable time the next morning, and Dean suspected that he was trying to please him, should he go off the rails again. He smiled warmly a Sammy, who managed to find them a good breakfast of nearly stale bread and jam. Dean scoffed his down with grubby looking tap water from the bathroom sink.

He pulled on his favourite jeans and noticed a slight bulge in one of the front pockets. Dean reached inside to find…

"AN IPHONE!" There was a note taped to it, which he read after his delightful manly squeal.

_Dean,_

_Sorry about all the shit I put you through,_

_Dad x_

Dean's heart felt instantly lighter, from a weight he had gotten so used to carrying. There he had it, the one piece of evidence that he father wasn't what Sammy thought. The younger sibling looked sourly at Dean's new phone.

He fiddled with it for a moment, before Sam took pity on him and found the on button situated on top.

"Thanks, Sammy," Dean muttered hastily, before turning his attention to the gadget. Sam rolled his eyes and tried to convince himself he wasn't jealous (but he totally was), and ended up having to find Dean a suitable top himself, so they wouldn't be late for school.

It wasn't particularly helpful, that Dean found it interesting to wave it in front of Sam's face every twenty seconds.

"I could break that from the inside and you'd be clueless how to fix it," he muttered grumpily.

"I suppose I'll have to get it a protective clown case then, Bitch."

"Jerk. You're gonna have to patch things up with your 'friends' or you'll have no one to talk to."

"I have other friends Sam."

His brother frowned at Dean and picked up his old phone, an android. He searched through the contact list. "You don't know any of these people. Why are they all girls' phone numbers?"

Dean snatched his old phone and started attempting to integrate the contacts onto his new friends. He supposed Sam was right, he would need to make things up with Benny and the girls, if not only for his phone, but his sanity as well. No wonder he had been practically suicidal with only Sam to sit in silence with. As we said, Dean's brain was methodical, and so friends were the right path to take.

#

Making friends was easier than Dean expected. He thought Benny might ignore his apology, and for a minute he looked sourly at Dean. Fortunately for Dean, Benny hadn't acquired anymore friends in the last three weeks, and was quite desperate for Dean to re-enter his life. Benny didn't say this, but after his contemptuous glare, he said _fine_.

And they went back to normal.

Dean thought Jo and Charlie would be a harder target, and spent the first three periods, just awkwardly smiling at them across the room, thinking of an excuse for his unsociable behaviour. Benny often tried to take Dean's attention away from them by throwing various pieces of stationary at him.

After one particularly heavy rubber hit Dean's glabella during lunch, the two girls approached their table. His mind raced at all the things he should say but then they sat down opposite the boys as though nothing had happened.

"Settle an argument for us Dean, if a house elf was given a piece of house elf clothing, would it be set free?"

"What d'ya mean…"

"Well, Jo here thinks that the clothing must be human, before it can be set free, which is utterly stu…"

"It's not stupid. Look, the tea towels are used as house elf clothes, but if it was presented with a tea cloth, it wouldn't be set free. Therefore, it must…"

"No, the house elves use tea towels as clothes, but they aren't _house elf clothes_. If some-one gave Dobby a miniature vest made specifically for house elves then he would have been set free."

"If practically all house elves wear tea towels then it is safe to assume that tea towels are house elf clothes."

"Yeah, but tea towels don't have the main function of being clothes…"

"Ok, but when the master gives it to them, they intend for it to be used as clothes, and the line must be drawn somewhere."

Dean thought it best to interrupt. "Excuse me?"

They both turned to him. He felt their penetrating stares. The way they looked at him made Dean wonder if they knew. Charlie appeared understanding, curious and kind. On the other hand Jo seemed as if she had understood something, but still held some resentment. Maybe they did know.

"Whose side are you on, Dean?" Charlie's voice was soft, which was strange for normally her words seemed to come out quick and determined.

"Jo's," Dean decided in a fit of madness, perhaps to calm the blonde's discontent with him.

The girl in question lit up as Charlie descended into another long rant about how they were wrong. She even looked at Benny for help, but he was more interested in his mobile.

Dean droned them all out and searched the room with his eyes.

There. Still crowded by the jocks sat Castiel. He looked relatively normal, the hand-me-down named clothes, and messed up black hair. Dean wasn't sure what he had been expecting. A great red cape floating off his shoulders? No. Maybe he had hoped Castiel would be staring, no looking, his way, just to check on him. But the blue eyed boy was engrossed in conversation with a short blonde guy on his left.

Dean willed Castiel to look at him, and he complied, sort of. He turned his head to face the girl on his right, his eyes blurring across the room as he did so.

The Winchester scowled at him.

#

After lunch was Chemistry with English with Mr Shurley. Dean strategically chose their desks where Castiel would be able to see him and Dean would see him see him.

The class went on as normal, with Dean barely concentrating on the work to glance at Castiel, looking over Meg's shoulder, shooting playful banter with some dude, scratching out answers on paper or doodling on the desk or his hand. He didn't look at Dean once.

What exactly was Dean to Castiel? Some nut job who tried to end it all when the going got tough? A guy that didn't need to be fixed just nudged in the right direction? A number in the apparently long line of strangers he had helped?

The scowl made a re-appearance.

What kind of guy bursts into a room to fix things half assed? How could he save Dean and then pretend he doesn't exist?

So deep in his thoughts, Dean didn't realise the soft buzz that went around the room.

Everybody checked their phone, including Mr Shurley, and simultaneously groaned (the loudest groaner being Mr Shurley).

Dean started and looked around. Pupils muttered among themselves before settling their phones back in their pockets. The lesson resumed as normal.

He turned to Benny, thinking he must also be confused being another new kid. Surprisingly, Benny looked slightly put off to.

"Alright now, calm down, class." Mr Shurley's voice and proximity, did not allow Dean to ask any of his friends what the fuck was going on.

He thought he would burst with questions, when all the phones went off again. Under the cover of the class' noise, Dean muttered to Benny, "What's happening?"

Benny gave him a deep look, before twisting his phone round to face Dean.

"Twitter?"

Jo leaned over his shoulder, "Ohhh, you're in trouble."

"What, why?" burst out Dean.

"Didn't you get the tweet?" said Charlie "It's compulsory to have twitter."

Dean repeated his exclamation.

"It's how Principle Rosen sends out messages, look." Charlie scrolled to the top of the screen.

_Meeting the vice president of skool 2day. Wearing unlucky knickers, oops! #YOLO_

_Congrats to Mr Shirely 4 another g8 yr of English! Ps, can u right some dirtier stuff for my comic xx #secretporn_

_F. Crowley, u r supposed to b in detention. Pomise to keep away from me &amp; we can drop charges &amp; restraining order #joke#lol#notreally_

_Students, twitter is mandatory, follow me for cool skool tweets #OMG#Muchfollows_

_Cafeteria is out of Pizza. Miss talbit ate it all. #omg#ursofired#fml_

_Just joking #lol#misstalbothasnevereatenanyting#soskinny#mearealwomen._

Jo handed back his phone, complete with a twitter account. He didn't remember giving Jo his new IPhone. "What about the kids who can't afford a phone?"

"Given one, I s'pose." Jo was quite nonchalant. "Probably a cheapo one, but it would do the job."

Dean looked back to Castiel, who was pushing his flip phone into his pants' pocket. He still wasn't looking at him.

"Dean," Jo poked his shoulder, and after a moment Benny's "Do ya wanna come over later?"

He thought of Sam, who had said he would stay with Dean after school rather than disappear to Jess'.

"Ellen makes the best burgers," piped in Charlie. "And apple pie."

And so he agreed.

#

After learning Jo lived above a bar called the Roadhouse, he asked if he could drag his weak ass little brother round, which received a positive answer. At half past five, the two Winchesters entered the pokey tavern, with Sam asking, "If they hadn't allowed me to come, would you still have?"

Dean pointedly ignored him.

From the left hand corner, he could see Charlie and Benny making awkward conversation. Jo, he supposed, was waitressing. Benny had only shown up because of Dean, hoping that he wouldn't forget Benny as he so often did in his other friends' presence. Dean, on the other hand, was blissfully unaware, and so started chatting up Charlie, when he and Sam sat down. Benny had to return to his phone or else attempt a conversation with Sam.

He decided, after a moments fiddling, to converse with Sam. If you want to keep a hold of someone, you ought to suck up to their family as well.

"Hey, Sam."

"Hi, Benny, right?"

They shook hands, before looking around for something to say.

"You gave that Novak kid a broken arm."

Sam wasn't sure how to reply to that statement. "I sure did."

"Well, he was being a dick, or so I heard."

"Who was being a dick?" interrupted Jo, taking off her apron as she slid in the booth, across from Benny and Sam.

"Gabriel," said Sam, "But we're ok now. Which reminds me, Dean," Dean turned around at the mention of his name, which was good news for Benny, because it meant Dean hadn't been completely engrossed with Charlie, "Can Gabriel come round tomorrow? For our project."

Dean furrowed his eyebrows at him. "What are we making daisy chains with that little cock sucker, now?"

"He's a good, well not good, but not a terrible person, really."

"You do realise he attempted to beat you up on your first day, don't you Sammy?"

The other occupants of the table were watching them squabble, with apparent fun. Jo kept muttering small side comments to Charlie, like "Oooh, burn."

He jutted out his chin as he replied "I'm not disregarding his actions, Dean. He just has problems with sugar deficiency."

"So you've been talking to Cas, as well?"

"Who?"

Shit, Dean had been thinking so much of Castiel, he had forgotten other people didn't know who he was. He decided to pass over it. "I don't know if you've noticed, but we're living in a motel; go round Gabriel's."

Sam considered his answer. Part of him wanted to lie, purely to annoy Dean, however a stronger part of him reasoned that they ought to stop the petty fight.

"Fine, I'll ask him."

"Good."

The group was silent for a minute until Jo piped up, "You must be Sam." The air became considerably lighter after that.

When the food arrived, Dean made damn sure to compliment Ellen, Jo's mum, on what he was sure was he second best burger of his life (first place was reserved for the first ever burger Dean had ever tried. His Dad often said it was a piss poor excuse of a burger, but it was Dean's first and he held it very close to his heart, even if it did give him food poisoning).

And then the Apple Pie came out. Dean pretty much whited out after that. How could any human on earth know the perfect ratio of crust to filling? It must have been the work of an angel.

All their phones buzzed against their legs; Sam had also received the Twitter alert.

_Eating at roadhouse see hot person :3 Ԑ: #omg#so#much#imagionation#__sex_

Another buzz.

_Nope 1 of my pupils! ABORT BECKY ABORT! #CRINGE_


	6. Stalker

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 6 - Stalker

* * *

It was now customary for Dean to stare blatantly at Castiel whenever he had the chance, which was often, considering that they lived in the same town and went to the same school, in the same year, with the same classes. So really, Dean's hobbies in life were hunting now and then, fixing cars, and obsessively stalking. Well, stalking is a strong word, for it would imply Dean was following the object of his curiosity, when in reality, he was the laziest mother fucking stalker in the world. The problem wasn't that Castiel was extremely interesting, more that he was excruciatingly normal, with a layer of fascinating beneath that, something Dean felt sure he had merely caught a glimpse of, and by God, didn't he want another peek.

It had taken over so much of his life, that Benny had stopped attempting to talk to him during these gawking sessions, and had tried to speak to Charlie and Jo, albeit rather awkwardly. Little progress was made.

On the Monday of one particular week, something changed. Monday's play a terribly big part in this story, and no matter how much Dean and the rest of the population say they hate Mondays, we all know we wouldn't be here without them. For on Monday's things change. Whoever heard of something happen on a Friday, when the world just tells all hardship and labour to fuck off? Or even on a Saturday. One must admit, nothing unscheduled happens on a Saturday.

The first Harry Potter was released on a Monday.

This one was no different.

After lunch, the rest of Dean's band of friends had health class, and he had a free period which he fully intended on spending wherever Castiel was.

He, himself didn't consider this to be creepy, in the least. In fact, it was rather therapeutic. His depression had almost subsided, which a normal person would consider strange because the only thing Dean had felt since he started was disappointment.

Honest to God, Dean should grow some balls and go talk to the guy, but those kind of boring things are reserved for _Thursdays_.

Ugh, Thursdays.

In all fairness, Dean wasn't sure how far this whole _not talking about it_ thing went. Did it mean that Castiel didn't want to talk to him on the school grounds? Or simply that Dean wasn't to spread around the truth?

Castiel ended up down by the bleachers, which were practically empty. He had chosen a seat near the front, next to the Meg girl. They were watching the football practice.

Dean chose a seat just slightly to the diagonal behind left, if you can picture that. Far away enough that he didn't come off as a creeper, though close enough to see the slight pink in Castiel's cheeks from the warmth.

The first requirement didn't matter as much.

The pair in front of him did not do much except stare at the game. Meg did sneeze once or twice, muttering about shitty hay-fever, or something. Dean found his eyes unwillingly watching the game instead.

They were pretty good, for an average high school football team, however Dean being a traveller, meant he had seen a lot better. And much worse, come to think of it.

The players knew just when their friends were behind them, and made quite a few strong pass backs. On the other hand, quite a few of them seemed cocky and arrogant, and Dean knew instinctively they would fail their tactics under pressure.

"Hello, Dean."

He almost fell out of his seat. Screw that, he almost toppled down all the benches and became the players' new football.

"Hey."

Castiel sat beside him. Funny how Dean was supposed to be stalking him and yet hadn't noticed the dude approach him.

"How are you?"

What an insightful question. How was Dean? Frustrated, in terms of Castiel, but also much lighter than he had been in a long time. Then again, Castiel may have been asking the question in regards to his physical attributes. He reckoned that he was normal, though his libido had shrunk, not that the other boy need know that.

"Fine, I s'pose." There was a pause. "You gonna sit or what?"

Castiel looked at him not unlike a foreigner would look at a bus time table. He must have concluded yes, for he sat just slightly apart from Dean and looked out to the football team. Meg was on the field informing every one of their stupid errors, however Dean's gaze had not dawdled over there and simply thought Meg had left.

"Hey, umm, Castiel?" The awkwardness was evident. His companion turned to face him. "When we first met, you said you knew my mom was dead." There was no point beating around the bush. Dean had a logical mind.

"Do you wish me to issue an apology that I treated your grief with congratulations? Or do you want me to explain how I knew your mother had passed? Perhaps you want to hit me for being an obnoxious know-it-all? Or is it that you want to learn how to psycho-analyse people?"

Dean stared at him, slightly abashed. "I dunno, I was just wondering…"

"About what, exactly?" The blue eyes were coming up to his face now, flicking between his own irises and insignificant things like Dean's earlobes.

"How did you know?" When he thought to say it, he was afraid that his voice would be soft and timid like in chick flicks, when instead, there was a slight edge to his words, small doses of anger slipping past his tongue. Why was his mother's name so difficult to hear, after so many Goddamn years? Why was the idea that people could read his past off his face, so aggravating?

Castiel sighed.

"It wasn't that I knew she was dead, more so that you were raised by a single father. More so, only your father came in, and you're almost identical in stature, suggesting there have been few feminine touches in your life style. Therefore unless you were the product of a gay marriage, or a butch woman, your mother was either dead beat, a runaway, or dead, and quite unfortunately, dead is the most likely. I recognise…a lot of people in you.

"I better go now Dean; I've got Spanish and you have…not-Spanish."

Dean nodded, though he already knew, with his stalker radar. Castiel walked down the bleachers. In a moment of inspiration, he stood up.

"HEY, CAS!"

Castiel turned, catching the wind in his hair. Dean trundled down the metallic steps to him.

"Can I help, one time?" He wasn't really sure why he was asking, but the author assured him he was supposed to.

Neither of them were confused on what Dean was asking, for here could only be one thing.

The shorter of the two, looked him up and down before saying, "No," and heading to Spanish.

#

After Not-Spanish, Dean snuck around the school, after already ushering Sam to go on without him. The plan was simple, well relatively. He would follow Castiel home. Doesn't that sound creepy on paper? But Dean had only formulated this plan in his head, were it appeared a lot less stalker like, and more concerned acquaintance-ish. Yes, he would follow him home tonight and the next night and the night after that, until Castiel went and did, whatever it was that he did, and Dean could spring out from the shadows and prove himself a worthy companion. Even in his head, that was pretty disturbing. He pushed the thought away.

He did feel that his friendships with Benny, Jo and Charlie, were probably falling apart, and so organised another meet up at the roadhouse at seven (Dean also desired another burger, but that was totally not the main reason for going there. Nope, his friends were better than any burger). The good thing was, Sam was doing his studying with Gabriel, and so if he was caught, Dean could make up a lie about wanting Sammy to be safe.

Dean walked about the school, near one of the Spanish classrooms, attempting to look casual. It worked, though that could be because he was crouched behind a bin, casually.

Castiel exited talking passionately with a jock. They went round a corner, and Dean followed their path.

Their talking quietened, not needing to be heard against the rumble of students in this empty corridor (empty apart from them and their stalker, of course). They started saying their goodbyes, and Dean almost shouted _"Hurry the FUCK up,"_ because his leg was starting to cramp.

And then they kissed. Castiel, and some unknown ugly as fuck jock, pressed lips in a darkened hallway. His insides writhed. It was over in a matter of moments. Castiel was the one who pulled away, thought Dean, hopefully.

_He was also the one who leaned in_ said another voice.

It wasn't romantic, more like a kiss shared between an unwilling participant and their great aunt. Yes he decided, his brain still hopelessly muddled from the angry emotions that had hit him like a train. Yes, this jock was just Castiel's great aunt.

The pair went their separated and Dean dodged round a corner before continuing on his pursuit.


	7. Dean's Mission

**A/N Today Dean refers to Dean in 2037, the year**_** 'I'**_** write from. I moved all the ages around, so Dean was essentially born in 1997, making him seventeen today :)**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 7 – Dean's Mission

* * *

The nameless jock and Castiel smooching, for lack of a better alternative, was not the most disturbing thing to happen that night. In fact, that night was extremely weird by anyone's terms. Dean Winchester was not to know this yet, for at the time I am writing about, he was crouched behind a wide boulevard, looking creepy and pissed. This is the Dean that had just bared witness to the aforementioned kiss, and was trying to scrub the remnants of the memory from his mind by playing it over and over again in varying degrees of vividness, (once even in black and white).

The current Dean, the forty year old mechanic, can barely remember that event, except in sepia, (but in this version, the jock had a lizard tail, something the seventeen year old Dean liked to incorporate on to this memory, in all versions and qualities of it). The current Dean has also asked me to stop writing him as a "mother fucking creep", but I am bound to record the true details of his adolescence. I will say this for him though, Dean is as insane as he come off.

But now, Dean saw something move, and so I digress.

There was a small scuffle and Dean could make out the figures of Meg and Castiel, if he craned his head slightly to the right. This means he had to move his hand out for fear of falling over, and he muttered a soft "son of a bitch" when Castiel turned round, apparently hearing him. If he had noticed Dean, his features did not change. Meg clapped her hand on to his cheek, somewhat gently, to return his attention to her. Castiel complied.

Dean was too far away to hear what they were actually saying, and out of boredom, began imagining the things they may be conversing about.

Meg was throwing her arms up. _"You don't know how hard life can get. Remind me when your last period was."_

Castiel had crossed his arms (Dean ignored the smile on his face, for the purpose of his story). _"We have been though this Meg. Being kicked in the balls is just as bad as a period, if not worse. I will concede, however, that giving birth is the greatest natural pain, but as you have not experienced it-"_

Now, Meg was cackling, something Dean could actually hear, it was so loud. She also threw back her head and pushed her arms and back further. She was the type of person who laughed with their whole body, somebody unrestrained. _"Not given birth! You don't know jack shit about my life. I'll have you know I am a proud, heroin addicted, mother of at least three children." _Meg was holding up five fingers. _"I have been to hell and back five times, in the last week alone, because you haven't been pulling your weight. YES YOU, CASTIEL, FATHER AND UNCLE AND AUNT TO MY EIGHT UNBORN CHILDREN."_

And then they hugged, which was irrelevant to Dean's tale and was overall, rather irritating. Suddenly, Castiel swooped Meg into a four second long virtuous kiss, which almost made Dean jump up from his hiding place and demand to know _what the fuck_ was going on. Sure Dean had realised he was a human with faults and what not, however, never in his wildest dreams, was Castiel he type to have two on the go at once. Dean sometimes was, but Dean was Dean, and Castiel was some weird kind of saint thing. A very weird saint person. Hadn't he said he got off of saving people? Where was this on the spectrum of good? He just couldn't make his mind up bout Castiel. One thing was certain, though; he wanted in.

Meg waved goodbye and Castiel trundled around the back of the school, with Dean not far behind him. After a moment, Castiel positioned himself just underneath a classroom window, his back up against the wall. From his school bag, he produced a _periscope_, which he then situated so he could see the inside of the window without looking in, after he had turned around, of course. Dean frowned at him.

Now that Castiel was doing something, it was a lot harder for Dean to sneak up and help. For one thing he didn't know what the fuck Castiel was doing, which made it considerably harder. For another, he wasn't sure how to present himself, or what particular excuse he would use. Castiel was clearly in his element and if Dean approached him, he might call out, jeopardising the mission, and that wouldn't help Dean's portfolio of why he'd be a great companion. Plus there was the problem of what he would actually do. Castiel was doing a one man job, which is often hard to do with two men. Shit.

Dean watched Castiel watch the inside of the school for a good ten minutes, before there was a small buzz ad Castiel retrieved his phone from his _Ralph Lauren_ jeans. And just like that Castiel stood up, just to the side of the window. It was now or never.

He snuck up behind Castiel, and laid his hand on his shoulder. Most people would have jumped in fright, but Castiel felt it was more sensible to simply turn around in circumstances like this.

"Hello Dean."

"Hey, Castiel."

"Was there something you wanted, Dean?" Castiel prompted.

"I want to help," Dean replied, firmly.

They held each other's gaze for a moment, the blue and the green, and Dean got the impression that Castiel was sizing him up.

"Dean, I should say no, but I'm going to give you a one off. I've got to be in two places at once, so if it's possible, can you hang back here?"

Dean almost jumps in triumph, but instead he says coolly "What would I be doing?"-not that it mattered, he could be sorting colors from whites for Castiel's laundry, as long as he was helping.

The other man relaxed slightly. "Well, I have to go on a stake out elsewhere. One of the girls said that she was suspicious of two of the teachers' speech about her. She reported to me that she overheard them talking about her inappropriately, and she was getting worried it wouldn't stop at just words. What I need you to do is stay here and tape record anything vulgar about the students so she can press charges if needs be. The teachers are unknown, but it was from this classroom. You might have to wait a while; she testified the words after six o'clock, after they had cracked open a bottle of scotch. Can you do that Dean?"

Like a dog, Dean nodded at the command.

Castiel smiled at him, making Dean feel inexplicably happy. "Can I put my number in your phone Dean?" Dean handed over the infamous IPhone, "Text me if anything escalates. Thanks again."

And he was off like a shot.

Dean lowered himself to Castiel's old space. He had left the periscope and tape recorder behind, for Dean's use. He looked at his watch. Three thirty three.

He positioned the periscope and was surprised to see the classroom was vacated. To take advantage of this, he opened the window, so that when they spoke he would be able to record it. And Dean waited. After half an hour there were no changes and he text Castiel such.

'_Sorry to put you through this. hold on a little longer.'_ Was the reply.

That was all right for him to say, Dean's ass was starting to get sore (don't forget he did just have school before hand). He thought he'd wait another ten minutes, and if there were no changes he would head on back to the motel, and watch the season finale of Dr Sexy.

As he pulled the surrounding grass out with his hand, Dean had to remind himself that Castiel and some unknown girl was counting on him to put these creepers behind bars, before…. Well before it got worse.

There was also something quite rebellious about sitting in the humid day, strategically planning to take the school down from the inside. Suddenly, he could understand what Castiel meant by it being enjoyable.

This thought kept him entertained for a full five minutes, when he went back to thinking _this is fucking stupid_.

Struck with an idea, he pulled out his phone again and text Castiel.

**Can't i stick the recordr somewhere &amp; leave?**

_Sorry Dean, I need to know who the teachers are and you're my camera. The tape recorder isn't what you'd call the best quality and can only record for ten minutes. If you left, I confess, I'd be at a loss. But you can go if you so desire, I can do it another night. _

Dean sighed at the reply. Castiel really was relying him. With new steely determination, he decided to stick it out.

His efforts were rewarded, for after seven and a half minutes of making daisy chains, Dean could hear the tell-tell noise of shoes on linoleum. He scooted closer to the wall (he had moved slightly to get to a big patch of strong reliable daisies). Using the periscope, he spotted Mr Shurley, pacing around the office. He wasn't who Dean was picturing, specifically. Personally he was considering Mr Uriel Milton, his physical education teacher, to be one of the creeps in question. Mr Shurley did have a strange beard, though, and he was always giving Jo and Charlie A+, despite their combined crappy-ness at English. And his first name was Chuck. Yeah, it was definitely him.

The teacher began pacing around the room, and Dean supposed he was waiting for his comrade. He put the recorder in his hand, finger jus hovering over the record button.

He heard the door swing open, and a pair of stilettoes, rang against the wood. A woman? A twist in events. Miss Talbot, no doubt. She always looked pretty creepy. Dean was surprised to see Miss Rosen, however, running into Mr Shurley's arms.

I believe we all can see what is going to happen, but Dean, being an idiot, did not, and therefore did not move away in time before the slam of bodies and the sound of teacher sex.

The pair had pinned themselves against the window, Dean was outside surveying, meaning he now had to sit beneath it, or risk leaving and being spotted. He groaned a little too loudly, but was fortunately masked by one of Mr Shurley's own moans of pleasure.

"Becky, wait stop," he said. Dean silently praised him. "This is wrong."

"Remind me, when was the last time you got laid?" Principle Rosen said defiantly.

There was silence.

"Yeah, Ok then." And the pair were at it again. Dean cursed Mr Shurley's lack of resolve and high libido.

Dean did consider poking daises into his ear, as he missed the quiet periods.

"Wait," this time it was Principle Rosen. She shuffled about and after thirty seconds, Dean felt a soft vibration against his leg. Twitter alert.

_Stuck in office after hrs :( Doin markin on private project #;) #10/10_

Dean sighed.

It was a long forty five minutes. Dean was surprised Mr Shurley could last that long. To be fair, there were long breaks, when Miss Rosen thought of various innuendoes to live tweet about.

It was five something o' clock, when they finished. Only another hour before the crime culprits were scheduled, or at least were expected to arrive again. Dean wasn't exactly tired, but he was hungry, which should have made him alert, instead of this warm doziness he was feeling.

The day was starting to darken and the humid temperature did not drop. He could hear the buzz of bees doing pollinating or some shit like that. His eyelids drooped, and he had to walk his head against the wall to stay conscious. It worked for a good twenty minutes, before his body told him to close up shop, in order to forget the aches and pains in his muscles.

#

When Dean woke up, it was quarter to seven. He had missed the sunset. The humidity had gone down somewhat, and Dean was drenched in his own cold sweat. Forgetting the periscope, he peered into the classroom window. With a pang of guilt, he found it empty, except for an empty scotch bottle and two overturned glasses.


	8. The Test

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 8 - The Test

* * *

Jo: _Roadhouse A.s.A.p asshole :p_

The buzz of the text shot through his leg like a spasm, and Dean slid further down the wall, to masquerade his horrible feeling of disappointment in himself. The grass beneath him was pliant, and he realised too late that it must have rained when he gave in to unconsciousness. Dean, himself, was soaked to the bone in a mixture of sweat and spring rain, and all in all, he was in no mood to talk to his friends. The only thing he could envision himself doing between now and ten was showering off the putrid body odour, and sinking in between the murky covers of his motel bed.

He had let Castiel down. God, he had barely known the man, Dean had only held great expectations of himself, and he had let them both down. It wasn't as though he was given a problematic job to do; a monotonous one, perhaps, but certainly not a trying one. Fucking shit, he was a terrible side kick, and he didn't deserve Castiel in any way shape or form.

And now this girl was in danger, all because of Dean's ignorance and wanton need.

No, Dean would come back tomorrow, and the next night and the next night, until he got the information he needed. He just needed to avoid Castiel, and then give him back the equipment, with the evidence on it. He was going to prove that he may be a fucking screw up, but Dean Winchester was not someone to give up on a case, to leave loose ends, to sit and whinge about how he had messed up.

But right now, he needed sleep.

His phone buzzed again:

Jo: _cum deanoo thers __**PIE**__;)_

And Dean thought he might as well go check up on his friends, after all he had made the date.

#

Dean entered the roadhouse with all thoughts of his friends (not really, he was singularly thinking of pie), so when a deep voice said, "Dean?", Dean turned around to find the source of the noise while asking,

"Pie?"

Castiel had chosen a table near the entrance of the restaurant/bar, and was happily munching on a steak. Dean's stomach turned over with dread, a strong nervous fear that encouraged the thought that he was going to puke. There was no point avoiding him now, all he could do was ask for a second chance. Not beg, Dean Winchester does not beg.

"I'm sorry Cas, I told my friends I'd meet them here at seven, I'll talk at school." HAH, the truth, finally coming in useful at last.

"You didn't get anything, did you?" Oh, fuck.

Dean stared, unsure how to reply. Castiel, for his part, didn't appear disappointed. A small emotion flitted across his ever impassive face, something Dean could not identify, but showed some sort of happiness. It was gone in a moment.

"Look –"

"It's quite alright Dean, some people just aren't suited for the job. It is quite a long time to wait."

This confused Dean slightly. Castiel couldn't know that Dean had fallen asleep, could he? In fact Dean could lie and say that they simply didn't turn up, and he wouldn't be any the wiser, so what the fuck did he mean? Dean suddenly caught on.

"Oh, no, I didn't leave early, I was there, I was just… asleep."

"But they definitely turned up as you slept, they aren't there now?" He wasn't surprised by Dean's lack of self-control, which was surprisingly insulting.

"Yeah, I saw the scotch glasses."

Castiel nodded, thoughtfully.

"Ok then Dean." And he returned to his food.

"I can make it up," said Dean, "I'll go back and do it again, tomorrow."

"No, it's perfectly fine. Do not trouble yourself over it."

Dean suddenly reached desperate, determined to not let Cas think he was a piece of undeserving shit. "I can do it again, just give me a chance, man. I'll do it tomorrow." Dean looked so remorseful, that Cas waved his hand to the seat opposite him, which Dean took. Castiel remained silent, and so his companion took the time to observe him. He looked the same as ever, messed up hair, electric blue eyes, and full lips, but for some reason, Dean felt a niggling annoyance at the back of his mind. "How did your case go?"

Castiel chewed slowly. "It was a bust."

"And now you're having a different kind of steak out," Dean smiled painfully, gesturing to Castiel's meal. There was a pause. "How long were you there before you left?"

"Half an hour at most."

"Huh."

"Is there something you want to say, Dean?"

He shrugged, "No, oh no, I was just thinking," Dean managed to say in a stilted fashion.

"Would you like to expand?"

"Why didn't you come back? I mean, I didn't need you –"

"Well, you rather did, considering you fell asleep."

"Yeah, so, whatever. Why didn't you come back Cas? I was just filling in for you, and you, kinda deserted me. Where have you been?" He forced out a laugh.

Again, Castiel gnawed, considering Dean's comment. "I went to your motel."

"What, why?" Why the fuck would he go to an empty motel, unless he thought Dean had already given up.

"Sam wanted some help. Gabriel can be a handful, and quadratic expressions can be equally problematic."

"But _they're_ at _your_ house!"

"Incorrect."

"WHAT?! Your brother's probably pissing on my bed and you just left _me_ to do _your_ job, while you babysat! Why didn't you come back, Cas?!"

Castiel just sighed. Dean's anger rose. Castiel was being a dick, and it's always hard to see that your idol is an utter fuckturd. And Gabriel was in his room. Dean forgot all about the pie and sprinted off home, only turning around once to see Castiel gathering up his things at a slower place, before giving Jo, who was taking away his plate, a large kiss on her lips. What in the ever loving fuck?

#

Dean wrenched open the door of his motel room, and sure enough, Sam was sitting at the table, pen in hand, and Gabriel was bouncing on _Dean's_ bed. _DEAN'S _BED.

"GET THE _FUCK _OFF MY BED," Dean roared at Gabriel, who didn't appear slightly off put by this reaction. Instead he leaped from Dean's bed to Sam's adjacent one with a loud,

"_GERONIMO_!" His landing was a tad shaky, however it was a grand traditional jump that would have scored points.

Sam had barely registered Dean when he walked into the room, choosing to scribble down the last couple answers in a notebook, before slamming it shut and sighing audibly. Maths wasn't especially hard for Sam, but it had proved a challenging task to fulfil when Gabriel was on your tail, even a Gabriel whose arm was still in a cast, from that time you beat him to a pulp. Whoops.

"Just get the _FUCKING HELL OFF THE BEDS_, for piss sake," continued Dean, striding over to the jolly faced boy, and attempting to manhandle him down. "We've already forked out for your fucking hospital bills. Do you think we're made of money?"

At this comment, Gabriel gave one last sporadic bounce (which made the bed give an ominous creak), before falling flat on his behind onto the bed. With the non-injured hand, he removed a lollypop from his mouth so he could speak coherently if need be.

"You were supposed to be going to this little fuck nugget's house," Said Dean, directing his comment at Sam.

"We were going to," Sam replied, "But-"

"I have a family of nine, Dean-o. _Nine_. You'll excuse me if I thought an empty motel room would be better to study in than a house of NINE WHOLE PEOPLE. Well, I say eight, but Cassie wasn't there, so eight. Well, I say eight, but Sam would have been there, replacing Cassie making nine. Well, I say nine, but you'd have tracked and followed us, making ten. And yeah."

"To be fair though" Sam piped up again, "There wasn't much studying going on here anyway." The tips of his ears turned red when he realised the implications of his words. "I mean, Gabe wasn't exactly concentrating on the work." If possible, he turned redder. "I just mean that… Gabriel was being a pain in the ass."

Gabe grinned at him. "A pain in the ass because you had my stick up yours?"

Sam grimaced back. "You're disgusting," he said as he threw his pen at the blond one. Dean gave a sigh of annoyance at the obvious bromance forming. It alerted Gabe's attention back to him.

In a sing song voice, Gabriel said, "I know why you're pissed."

"Yeah, you," teased Sam to Gabe, from across the room, as he drew out his English project.

"What the –"

"Fuck do I mean by that? Yeah, you're kind of obvious, Dean." Gabriel grinned up at him. His legs caught on Dean's after a moment of swinging. "Cassie got ya good."

Dean didn't want to give Gabriel the satisfaction of having his full attention, but he was also pretty desperate to understand what he meant. With this in mind, he placed his hand on Gabriel's shoulder, and wrenched him back, so he could see into Dean's murderous face.

Gabriel just smiled, the Winchester evil eye having little effect on him. "Dear Cassie has pulled the ol' detective trick."

This wasn't considered important enough to be deigned with an answer.

He continued, "Over years and years, my darling brethren has been stalked by many a follower, all requesting the same thing, a chance. A singular chance in which to prove themselves, and so my dear brother has made up an emergency and given them a cold case."

The anger in Dean's chest was already at its maximum, and so Gabriel's words did nothing except make cold shame wash over him. There had been others?

"What d'ya mean by 'cold case'?"

"Some lie Cassie makes off the top of his head, nothing real in it. It's just to rile up these weirdoes."

Some sort of relief, or perhaps some weight was lifted from his shoulders, but Dean couldn't full comprehend just why. "Mine wasn't a cold case."

"Is that right?" Gabriel considered him. "What happened then?"

"There was definite evidence they were there, ok?"

"No," The smile was back in place. "Come on Dean-oooooooooo, tell Gabriel what happened."

"I fell-"

"You_ fell_?" Gabriel snickered.

"No," he said, hotly, "I fell _asleep_." Needless to say, this statement did not have the desired effect.

"Well *laughed laugh laugh*, had you been awake, you'd have known that nothing goes on in a cold case *sniggeredy snigger snigger*, and you've been tricked, brotha!" Gabriel continued to chortle, and Sam didn't manage to keep a straight face, either.

"Sorry Dean," said the younger Winchester, who was having a much easier time of keeping his emotions under the lid than his friend. "But it's true; Cas told us everything when he swung by."

"Right then." His jaw clenched.

"Dean-o, I'm only telling you this because I like you. There were three other creeps, over whatever many years. The first, left before he was supposed to in the mission, so Cassie counted him out. The second threw a fit when she heard she'd been screwed over, and vowed never to speak to him again, so that was kind of rubbish. And the third, ah mon favourite, stayed awake the entire night and refused to believe he had failed for like three days straight, until Cas told him to his face that he had been tricked, in after which he became a sobbing mess and moved to Canada.

"My point is Dean, that this isn't a 'trick'. It's kinda more like a test, really. Cassie isn't against having a partner, just doesn't want a dick for one. I dunno how the 'scoring' system works in that dude's head, but I'm fairly sure you've passed the first round."

Dean's head swam with the new information. He felt elation course throughout him, before being brought back to earth, with a sudden fall in his stomach. With such a ride of emotions, he forgot his anger at Gabriel. "I wouldn't be so sure."

Gabe leaned back and spread his arms out wide, giving Dean the greatest and most radiant grin ever to grace this earth. "Did ya yell, or scream or shout? Signs of character, Dean-weanie. Cas won't want some poor mother-fucker who can't stand up for his own behind. As long as you don't '_employ physical violence_' or that shit, Cassie's pretty laid back about people abusing him.

"I think you'd be great Dean. Tell you what, he doesn't like speaking about it a school so don't bring it up then. We go to church on Sundays. See if you'd like to attend, me hearty."

* * *

**A/N Virtual Cookies if you can guess why Castiel's **_**smooching**_** everybody! **


	9. Church

**A/N: Small mistake last chapter. Gabriel said he has a family of eight, when it is in fact nine, including him (I have not yet mastered the art of counting). If you'd believe it Castiel started off as an only child. Ha! Oh and by family of nine, I mean to say there are nine people living in that house, Lucifer living elsewhere. So I suppose, strictly, it's a family of ten. Whoops. Good luck remembering, but I made the ages easy. ****:]**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 9 - Church

* * *

The last time Castiel remembers having a full family dinner he must have been nine, so a good eight years ago. The elongated table required for a full family, stretching out of the corners of his eyes. Of course, there must have been a beginning and an end, but when you're nine and the brutish face of your brother stares across from you, the world can seem a bit bigger, a bit fuller. That was when he was much shorter, with knobbly knees and bony elbows and fingers. Perfect assets for prodding Raphael, when his parents turned their backs. Raphael was a year older, and with a fuller, and perhaps more healthy body. Blunt where he, himself was sharp.

Castiel's white plimsolls did not quite reach the floor, unless he shuffled forward on his chair and then he could gaze the very tips of them on the marble tiles. They were still perfectly long to reach Raphael's shins, and thus he gently got into a rhythm of striking the other boy on the shins. _Kick. Kick. Kick_…

Raphael had black _Doc Martens_. Not brand new but falling apart, yet spotless (Castiel had a habit of treading mud into the carpets). Raphael couldn't pin down his brother's offending feet, and instead clamped them between his own, beneath the table. A tight grip of boots around plimsolls. Castiel pressed his hands onto his chair chair to lever himself out of the grip, yet to no avail. A slight whimper escaped him when the skin above his snowy socks, caught on his opponent's shoe. Castiel writhed. Pushing himself higher caused an ache in his wrists – letting Raphael win brought would bring an ache to his gut. He clamped tighter to the chair, almost prying his fingertips into the metal framework in order to free himself. The bones pushed his skin out.

There was a nasty grin on Raphael's face. Predatory. Nefarious. Beastly.

His parents must have been somewhere, but in his memory, there was only Raphael. The young boy who stared him down.

When Castiel dragged his chair from out the table, Raphael simply pushed the table back to meet him in the chest; his lungs robbed of air.

There wasn't much else to do except give an almighty lurch beneath the table, the strength originating from his hind legs. This was unexpected. Raphael fell, his chair toppling. Raphael fell and dragged Castiel with him.

They both had smaller portions for misbehaving that night.

#

Dean wasn't going to follow Gabriel's advice. The guy was a dick, a dick who probably had the wrong end of the stick, when it came to Dean and Castiel.

So when Dean went to church on that particular Sunday, it was purely out of his newly found love of our lord, Jesus Christ.

He had had a good week. No detentions, no drama, no quarrels and no creepy-ass stalking. Charlie, Jo, -but mainly Benny- were a little pissed that he had barely turned up to the roadhouse, however he made it up to them on Tuesday. Dean even managed to coerce his brother into giving up his laptop for the afternoon, and the four of them played computer games (Jo's tactics were like a hula hoop of death; get in a certain diameter of her and you were shot dead, friend or foe. Benny died a lot, but this turned out to be part of his strategy, they quickly learned when they were squashed to the ground; Charlie still won). Jo had a wall of horror/gore films, which they valiantly ploughed through. The red head fell asleep, and Jo said she had watched Saw III far too often, so did her homework on the sleeping girl's back. Dean reacted as he should to the movie, perhaps a little too squeamishly if anything, while Benny was just about salivating.

Wednesday and Thursday passed with the traditional bitch whining from Sam, and on the Friday they received a call from John, who assured them he was fine, but some other dude had lost an arm, which sounded pretty negative.

Saturday was spent by Sam leaving to meet up with Gabe. Dean had planned to do some homework, but mainly sit and plan for Sunday. Instead, he found it much more useful to spy on his brother in the park. He discovered some very helpful things like, Sam thinks Dean is secretly gay (bi-erasure much?) and that Sam thinks Dean can be a dick when he wants to be (truer). Gabriel's least favourite sibling is Castiel, because Cas makes Gabe ration his candy, and that Gabe can go super humanely fast on a merry-go-round. He also found out Sam wants something called 'privacy', which Dean thinks is a weird as fuck, whilst he hides in the bush.

And then it was Sunday. There were few churches in town, so it only took a bit if googling to find St Paul's or Peter's or whatever. What was much harder was deciding which service they were going to. 9-10? 10-11? Did Cas wake up for the 6-7? Well, hopefully not, because Dean was not walking half a mile at night, for some crackpot scheme.

He chose the 11-12 which proved to be the correct decision, miraculously. He had also planned to sit in the pew behind Castiel, but that turned out to be useless, because the guy had managed to seat himself at the back. Dean (and Sam, who had been dragged along) considered standing at the back, however he decided he might be a stalker, but he certainly wasn't an obvious stalker. They sat in the back neighbouring pew.

Castiel sat in between six others that, Dean supposed, were younger siblings. Gabriel sat on the end and waved vigorously and at sporadic intervals during the ceremony. The seven may have been devoted to attending church every week, but the attention they paid was poor to say the least.

For starters, alongside Gabe's waving, there was the practically constant whispering, and the fidgeting, and the ripping pages out of the hymn book and making paper airplanes, which he then threw at the two Winchesters. Then there were two younger boys who looked in a daze, and one half dropped into sub-consciousness, part way through. A red head looked somewhat interested, until Dean realised she was drawing on her thigh with a green marker. The other girl had a book up to her face, clearly ignoring the proceedings and coughing loudly when she turned the pages. There was another kid that had been blocked by all the bodies. Castiel looked the most into it, even though he was merely mouthing the hymns and prayer responses (something Dean only knew because he and Sam were doing it as well).

The priest, or priestess, rather, introduced herself as Missouri Moseley.

An empowered, wouldn't-take-no-for-an-answer sort of person, both traits which were good and dandy in Dean's book, except when he was the one saying 'no'. With the Novaks in his direct line of sight (well, if he turned 90 degrees to the right), the service was hard to focus on. There were lots of ambiguous messages and a shit ton of repetition, and, if he were being honest with himself, Dean wasn't a great believer in the big man upstairs.

But still, getting a 'church detention' was quite another thing.

Now Dean didn't know much about church, granted. Nor was he knowledgeable on Christianity, or any other faiths really. Come to mention it, he was also pretty shit at calculus too. But despite this, he did have some common sense.

Like, what the fuck's a 'church detention'?

And with indignation striking a string in his heart, the rest of the service passed by with Dean's muttered grumblings, and the slow movement of Sammy sliding away from Dean down the pew.

Overall, Dean decided, this church detention wouldn't have impact on his life. He was going to march out of this church, head held high, in whichever direction the Novaks were heading, whether Moseley liked it or not.

It did appear, however, that this was unnecessary, because Cas and Co. volunteered at the church after the service, and Dean could barely stalk them obviously within the church, head held high, because he would probably look not dissimilar to a camp heron.

"Hello, Dean," said Cas, smiling slightly. "I didn't know you were a frequenter of the Church."

"Hiya, yeah well, churches are my calling." Cas raised both eyebrow. "O.K., you caught me. Homework."

Although he heavily doubted the excuse, Cas did not allow a look of disbelief to cross his features. Instead he licked his chapping lips and threw Dean a spare bottle of polish and a clean rag. "You're doing the window ledges." He himself sauntered off to dust the pews,

"What? No, come on Cas, there's no such fucking thing as church detention."

Missouri's voice called out from the pulpit, not particularly angry or surprised, but simply loud to get her message to them. "_BOY_, THERE'LL BE NO SWEARING IN _MY_ CHURCH. YOU'VE JUST EARNED YOURSELF _DOUBLE DETENTION,_ CASTIEL COME HERE YOU CAN ORGANISE MY CANDLES AND DEAN, YOU CAN POLISH THE WINDOWSILL AND THE PEWS. IF I HEAR ANOTHER EXPLETIVE ON THIS HERE HOLY GROUND YOU'LL BE WAXIN' YOUR SWEARS FROM THE FLOOR."

"_Son of a,_" Dean quietened for the final word. "Titch,"

_"I HEARD THAT_."

Castiel hadn't gone to join Missouri yet. "I heard that Gabriel explained the situation to you." He bit his lip.

_Oh yeah_, thought Dean_, that thing about you screwing me over_. He wished he was a little more pissed at Cas, but honest to fuck, all he could feel was a nervous excitement at being one step closer. Plus, he was kinda feeling like taking the high road today. "And then I shouted at you, so I'm gonna go ahead and call us even." He held out a hand, which Castiel shook tentatively. They kept their gaze on their interlocked palms, until they broke away.

"I don't think you have to stay here, Dean. Missouri's cool, I think it's more of a joke than anything else."

"Don't worry about it," Dean was pretty determined to show he didn't step out of hard work. Castiel turned to leave. "I'll lump half of the work on Sammy," Dean called over to him, now wanting to appear humorous, and forgetting to act diligent.

He chuckled slightly, but was then faced with the daunting task of dusting. "Hello Duster, old friend," Dean muttered mutinously, under his breath. "Looks like we're going to have a bit of fun today."

And what a fuck-tonne of fun they did have together.

Sam, as it followed, had found a place sweeping, which left Dean with his entire 'double detention'. By God, was it exciting?! Do you realise how many mother-fucking windows are in a church? A lot. Many. Numerous windowsills. All with various degrees of filth. The pastor enjoyed eyeing his work, and then commanding he did it again (in fact she did most of the telling him off without even looking at the shitty job he was doing, and automatically knew when he skipped a ledge). Not that she was wrong, of course. Dean wasn't exactly the best duster, but at least now he tries to put the work in.

Castiel made short work of organising he candles, and was more than happy to watch Dean complete the rest of his task. If he had known Cas was leaving him with the lion's share of work again, Dean probably would have thrown another hissy fit, however, Dean was far too busy muttering replacement obscenities under his breath, to do things like look around. Or listen.

Which is why when the bell tolled one o' clock, Dean barely registered anything, except the new dull ache in his ears. This was little to his elbows and wrists. He did, although, jump out of his skin, when someone tapped him on the shoulder.

"_Flippity Shippity_." Missouri's warning had kinda stuck with him.

"You can go now," and Dean saw the priestess looking at him with a smug impression.

"Praise the Lord." She raised an eyebrow. So did Gabriel, who Dean was displeased to see was at her elbow.

"Too right," Gabe said, puffing out his chest. He looked expectantly to Missouri. From beneath her clerical attire, she produced two lolly-pops. Gabriel received his eagerly, and wasted no time in ripping the wrapper off, and putting the sucker between his lips. The other one was offered to Dean. He looked at it warily, before Missouri shoved it into his palm. Gabriel had already skipped off.

"Would you believe that kid works an hour a week, for candy?"

Dean felt vaguely surprised. Every-fucking-week? The young Novak was aware he could get a pack of thirty for three dollars, wasn't he? But, Dean supposed, every piece of sugar not belonging to him, was a waste in Gabriel's eyes.

"You gonna come outside with me, Dean?" she asked. Dean followed her outside, where there were six individuals moseying around. Castiel must have trailed behind him (fucking follower), for he passed by Dean's left. Instantaneously, he gave up his own candy to Gabe, with a low warning of something like:

"Do not eat them all at once." Fat chance, there were only two. On the other hand, when Castiel pulled back beside Dean, he noticed a definite bulge in Gabriel's pockets that a mere duo of lolly-pops couldn't fill.

"You gonna introduce me, Cas, or what?"

Cas fiddled with his wrists. "Well, I'm the eldest, so proceeding me is Balthazar, over there." He gestured to a lean blonde boy, who was conversing with Gabriel. "He's sixteen. And then there's Rachel, whose… I''ll shorten this conversation, everybody's a year younger than the next."

Dean raised his eyebrows slightly and grunted in understanding.

"My parents were, are, I suppose, hard-core religious. So all sex had to be procreative, meaning no contraceptives of any kind. This of course resulted in a large family, and all about a year, or ten/eleven months apart."

If Dean thought a seventeen year-old talking about his parents' sex-life so matter-of-fact-ly was in any way abnormal, he managed to keep his reactions to himself.

"Yes so, after Rachel is Anna." Dean could see the two girls talking vaguely to each-other, waving their hands about lazily. "The red-head is Anna. Next it is Gabriel, who you know. Then Inias," he pointed to some other small kid. "And finally Alfie, who must be eleven, now."

Dean looked at the Novaks mulling around. They began to dawdle their way supposedly home.

"And, Dean. Meet me by the park at seven. Bring your car."

He couldn't prevent the great hope rising in his chest as he smiled out, "What for?"

Castiel just raised his left eyebrow in reply, while jogging off to catch up with the rest of his family.

Dean fist-pumped the air.

"Dean."

"What, bitch?" Where the fuck had Sam been anyway? Gabe had probably taken away his naivety and ambition in a single hour, if first and second and third impressions were anything to go by.

"Come see this." His voice wasn't full of excitement, or anything really. A slight nervousness, perhaps. A small portion of anticipation.

Sam navigated himself and Dean forcefully through the church graveyard. The elder one had a suspicion that what his brother wished to show him wasn't exactly entertaining or indeed pleasant. He readied himself for the worst, almost positive Sam was going to find a grave with his exact name on it and the birth date would be his own and the death date would be today (because that would be fucking creepy, like a graveyard).

Instead, Sam stopped and stooped in front of a small wooden cross, in place of a headstone.

"What the fuck, Sammy?"

In answer to the question, Sam read out the enragement:

_Raphael Novak Aug 5__th__ 1995- May 22__nd__ 2005\. _

Nothing else fit onto the cheap memorial. Dean circled it. There was more writing on the back. He sat down on the dewy grass to read it. The letters were certainly old, carved in manually, Dean guessed, by a child, for it was a crude way to send a message.

_Wish you were here._


	10. Kicking Ass

**A/N: I haven't updated in fooooooooooooooorever, yes, I agree but I've done worse in other fics. (Six months * overly dramatic gasp of my tardiness *) But I honestly enjoy this, and so updates should become more frequent, with my holidays coming up! ;) T/W drugs, no drug use, but mentions of it.**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 10 - Kicking Ass

* * *

It wasn't exactly a difficult choice. What was a great deal harder was finding someone to lump Sammy on to. Normally he'd be fine by himself, but Dean was unsure of how long kicking ass would take.

"I'll survive Dean, don't worry; just go have fun with your boyfriend.'

"If you think that lewd comments are going to convince me of your maturity, I hate to break it to ya dweeb."

But in reality, the possibilities were limited. Dean had even called up a kennel to hostage Sam, who had impolitely, turned him down. There were the other occupants of the motel, Pimp, High-End-Prostitute-with-a-moustache, Jack-o-Lantern, Bad Santa, Angsty News Reporter, Sausage Eyebrows and Uranus Boobs.

And then there was the option of bringing Sam, an idea rejected within 0.5 seconds, or knocking him out and sticking him under the floorboards, which, Dean is ashamed to say, was an idea that amused him for seven and a half minutes.

"I could invite Gabe..."

Dean was so put off he just left Sammy there and then (with a threat about bringing round That Little Shit).

#

Dean pulled up the impala, smartly on time. Castiel, on the other hand was destined to turn up unreasonably late.

The intended occupants of the park were long gone, and had been replaced by frustrated gangs of teens, puffing on rolled up pages of _Harry Potter and the Chamber Of Secrets_, which they believed would suitably hold their weed. From his distance, Dean could see a multitude of littered attempts which indicated the poor appropriateness _Harry Potter_ had to drugs. Good old J.K.

There were also two overweight men in the great overhanging oak, above the aforementioned teenagers. The pair went unnoticed, even though they often caused the branches to creak ominously. Why they were there was oblivious to Dean. If anything, they looked about to belly-flop onto the teens, and nick the drugs when they'd managed to light them up.

Dean felt the urge to warn the kids, or at least throw a rock at the peeping Toms, but then one turned around. He was surprised to see Bad Santa looking back at him. And then waving at him, vigorously. _Well_, thought Dean, _at least he wasn't with Sam_. Still, he wasn't exactly sure how to respond to this. March up there in confrontation? But then he'd have to march up a tree, which was always a handful to do. Plus, Bad Santa wasn't so nicknamed because of his jolly attitude.

Vaguely, he heard someone cough behind him, before he was pushed smartly to the floor, by none other than Angsty News Reporter, carrying her camera up to her eye. Bad Santa and his accomplice posed accordingly for the Camera. Neither of them looked dissimilar to Kate Winslet in _Titanic_.

"Ouch," Dean bounced up. It hadn't actually hurt that much, but if there had been one thing his father had taught him about living on the road, it was _play up for the insurance_. Oh, and put across your pissed-off-ness. "Don't push me, Bitch."

She sniffed at him. "The world pushes us all down sometimes. They tried to wave you away, and yet you would not listen. Violence was my last resort." And then she sighed, angstily. His fist would have felt much better buried in her face, but Dean was being a good person for once. He couldn't ruin this night with Cas.

He stalked away from them to the swings. They had been repainted recently and cheaply, because Dean could see the old paint coming through. It was much better before. A gender neutral yellow, rather than the new coating of hot pink. Upon this he took his frustration out. He grabbed the cracked rubber, and swung it around the above pole of the swings. Apparently, Dean was either small or a weakling, for it did not wrap around on the first attempt. The second proved much more fruitful, receiving a better momentum, and wrapping the swing around twice. An impossibly high height to perch upon.

Under a climbing frame, Dean noticed another small group hanging out. They were aged about nine to seventeen. Well, I say seventeen, because Castiel was hunched over and talking to the mixed group of six, all below the age of what, fifteen? Cas drew away and noticed Dean. Dean strode over, but before he could ask what the kids were doing, the gang had disbanded off into the distance.

Cas explained, "My eyes and ears, Dean."

Under normal circumstances, Dean would've found this extremely pretentious, however this was _Cas_. "Right, yeah. Course."

Castiel was dressed in pretty much the same clothes as ever. Something bought at Douchebag Market three years ago. Today, he sported a tight _Calvin Klein_ T-shirt and _Marc Jacobs_ slacks. An outfit fit for an ostentatious prick. Which of course, did not describe Castiel slightly. Dean, on the other hand, was reasonably scruffy, with a polo, slightly ripped jeans, and the one constant in his life, the leather jacket.

"Is this your car?" said Cas, pointing to a mini. _A mini._

"No, dude. _That's_ my car." Dean barely looked at where he was pointing, wanting to see the look upon Cas' face when he realised how fucking cool Dean was. Instead, Dean received a facial expression of confusion.

"I wasn't aware you drove a tractor." And indeed, Dean had pointed to a tractor.

"No, man, behind the tractor." Cas gave a comical jump, but tall as he may be, Castiel couldn't look down the other side of a 12' vehicle.

"I think it would be advisable to go around the tractor," Said Castiel, which they did.

He impala came into sight. The Winchester turned back to looking expectantly at Cas' face.

For his part, Cas was unaware that he was supposed to pass judgement on said car. It was only until an uncomfortable silence had caught them in its midst, he decided to say, "It's very nice," and simply hope his silence was taken by Dean to mean stunned by the impressive vehicle.

In truth, Cas knew very little about cars, which, in itself, isn't out of the ordinary. What is more unusual is he didn't appreciate cars. At all. He wouldn't have been bothered if Dean's car had invisibility powers, or if it self-served hot dogs to the hobos it passed. Neither would he have cared if its carbon foot print was the largest in the universe, or the roof only allowed people under 5' to enter.

Castiel liked boats. Narrowboats. Dragonboats. Lifeboats. Yachts. Longships. U-boats. Rafts. Wakas. Fireboats. Ferries. Draggers. Fishingboats. Surfboats. Swiftboats. Shallops. Motorboats. Oil Tankers. Are you aware what futtocks are? Castiel was. How about the Scuttlebutt? Do you know the technical difference between a boat and a ship?

And so, consequently, Castiel did not give a fuck about a car unless it was floating. Neither did he give a rat's ass about submarines.

Fucking show offs.

"Just nice?" Dean tried to coax Cas.

He blinked blankly with the pressure. "And very sexy." Leaving a very red faced Dean, Castiel climbed in shotgun.

It took a moment for Dean to control the blush and follow his companion. What on earth had possessed Cas to say that? Did he really think Dean was sexy with this car? No, wait, he hadn't been commenting on the Dean and impala package. Just the car. Maybe Cas had a weird car fetish.

"Where we headed?" Dean asked as he switched on the ignition.

"You have been living here for a limited time. I doubt if I gave you an address that you would be able to self-navigate. Simply hit the next town, over the iron bridge, and I'll direct you from there." Dean told his feeling of annoyance and embarrassment to fuck off.

It wasn't hard. Excitement electrified his body, though mainly it was nausea and nerves. A horrible pinching feeling in his gut, right below his abdomen. "Right. What are we doing?"

"Drugs raid." Simple enough. No further details were offered up.

Dean studied the other dude in those brief moments he could take his eyes off the road. How could such a straight talking guy, be this great a mystery? This snogging of three separate people, _on the same day_, and yet appears a monogamous, or looking more for a serious relationship. The wearing of fancy-pancy clothing, and having a flip phone. His interest in Dean. And the new found information, the dead brother. Dean had done the maths. The Novak family were all one year apart, and Cas, it was safe to assume was seventeen. This put him at nine years old when his ten year old sibling passed away. Tragic to say the least. Dean often wondered if Castiel had truly gotten over it, for more frequently than not, he seemed far away and contemplative. His action were noticeably much more thought out compared to those of his peers.

Still, if Sam died, Dean would be bloody lost as well. His little brother was mostly thought of as the main pillar of Dean's life. Every fucking thing revolved around that twerp. And goddamn it, didn't Sam deserve it.

"Is this a definite case, Cas?"

The black haired boy had been staring forlornly out of the window, where they had stopped at a traffic light. There had been a pair of hedgehogs mating vigorously, which had actually made Castiel keep aligned to the task at hand.

"Yes."

"Care to elaborate?" Sometimes Dean could put up with this meditative shit, and other times he wanted some damn answers.

"I received a call, from Metatron's girlfriend…"

"Wait, hold up, Metatron? What kind of fucking name is that?" _Not that_, Dean thought privately, _Castiel was a better example of a normal name_.

"I apologize Dean. I often forget you're new. Metatron is a code name, or at least I think it is, for our most prolific drug dealer. Problem is that we don't have any idea who he is, because he tends to never have any illegal substances on him. Rumour is, he's never touched the stuff, and merely runs the entire operation, from his throne, whatever connotations that may have. As I say, his newly acquired girlfriend calls me up, and confesses that she was pulled into the operation as one of the dealers. Marijuana is her fresh trade, my understanding is. She is new, and Metatron would barely trust her with Ketamine, Crystal Meth, or his main business, Heroin and Ecstasy. I believe he does reasonably well in the Marijuana business, however. Our main aim tonight is to clear out all drugs, relocate, or at least remove data of the woman from all data bases, so she can live free of Metatron."

"Great." Dean's head physically hurt with all the knowledge. He doubted his father would be pleased to hear they had moved to the drug hotspot of America. "We've got some doped up town."

Castiel turned to Dean, strangely wiped of emotion. "Dean, when I say most prolific drug dealer, I'm talking nationwide. Our town is no more 'doped up' than the rest."

FUCKING SHIT. Well, nobody fucking told Dean, the seventeen year old, who was flunking human resources, that he was supposed to be taking on a _nationwide drug dealer_. These people had fucking bombs, and taskforces, and assassins. And _they,_ Dean the mutton head and Cas the starry eyed dreamer, had each other, and some cheap spy equipment, oh and Dean had the _knowledge_ of how to fire a hunting weapon. Not to mention their vulnerable families, and defenceless bodies. And here was Castiel, calm as day, or the sea if it'd been frozen over, speaking about defeating the greatest enemy Dean knew of. He felt suddenly, extremely naked without his gun.

"This is fucking insane, Cas." He tried to keep his emotions in check. "You want to defy this great old fashioned villain, with what? Me? 'Cause I'm_ not_ putting Sam in danger, not to sort out anybody's shit.

"Do you even have a fucking plan?"

Castiel looked interested in Dean. "Today, we are just saving a teenaged girl from a life of crimes. There will be no Metatron, no life or death matters, just 'kicking ass'. Yes, there is some element of danger, however, you woke up this morning and braved being stabbed on the street to get to church. Then you returned home, although the possibility of being hassled is terribly disproportionate. You drank water, without first scanning it for Cholera or Hepatitis A and you've been eating pie since your first steps, disregarding the health risk. Once we dispose of the drug appropriately, there will be nothing tying you to it, I swear."

There was a pause.

"Okay Mother Fucker, let's do this."

#

The house of Sarah Blake was unexpected, to say the least. Dean had been anticipating something run down, on the outside of town. The streets he imagined drug dealers to walk down were regularly imagined to be dank and dark, with a faint smell of urine. Sarah Blake lived in an ordinary, run of the mill, suburban bungalow. How on earth she had crossed paths with Metatron, Dean had no idea.

He was instructed to park a little ways down the road, because Cas was a paranoid maniac, and then the two set off to her front door.

She opened the door slightly. Upon recognising one of the faces, Sarah Blake ushered them past the chipping green door. She couldn't have been any older than twenty, and at a minimum age of sixteen. Despite being in league with a dangerous criminal, Sarah was blatantly ordinary. If anything, she had a splash of elegance about her, with a tight prudish dress, and sleek raven hair. Her face was sharp, giving the allusion of a no nonsense person, however, her slight fidgeting with mundane objects, gave her away as petrified.

Castiel thought it prudent to get down to business straight away, and handed Dean a pair of latex gloves. Sarah had not spoken a word, or invited them deeper into the house, and so Cas gave her a soft push on the shoulder, to steer her to the kitchen, but she stiffened against him.

"They're in there," she gestured to the room on the right, before hurriedly taking the hand up to her face to stem the quick forming tears of fear. "I'll make coffee," and she scarpered off, down the long hallway.

"Dean."

"_They_ are in there?"

"The drugs, Dean. Now, find them. I'll talk to Sarah and wipe the data base."

"Right," he sighed. _More fucking responsibility_.

Sliding the uncomfortably tight gloves over his slim fingers, Dean turned into the right room, the Living room. So far, he had observed that the house compromised of two colours, green and cream. This was no different. He wouldn't call it warm, though, all things considered, it was not unwelcoming. Uniquely, there were five walls, like a pentagon, covered in lime green paint. A bad job had been done, for the brush marks were visible. There was also a matching rug on the bleached hardwood, which had been scraped a few too many times. A desk to the left end looked out of the front window of the house. Extremely curious, for Dean could not ever remember a place where the desk looked out instead of in. One wall was lined with shelves and shelves of books, and the remaining cream furniture faced it accordingly.

Why Sarah would hide drugs in here was just a big of question of _where_ the drugs were in here.

Perhaps it was beneath the floorboards, or one had to pull back a book to reveal a secret room.

Then again the locked drawer of the desk seemed pretty reasonable. Dean went over to examine it, hoping Cas would make his speech quick, so that Sarah could turn her attention to _the actual reason they were here_.

It was ornate, with, what looked like, hand carved runes running across it. Instantly, Dean's mind turned back to Raphael's gravestone, with its strange message, though this was surely imprinted by a different hand.

"That was my father's." Sarah had returned with coffee. "He turned it out so that when he grew bored of work, he could take out his pocket telescope and look at the stars."

Dean drummed his fingers on the desk, unsure of how to reply, and unaware that it may appear rude. "What was his line of work?"

"Historical linguistics." Sarah crossed the room, and put the mug of piping hot coffee down, not bothering with a placemat. Again the room was full of awkward silence. Dean was personally thinking of the best way to say '_Gimme the drugs'_ without sounding rude. However, Sarah took the silence as a sign to carry on. "This was my childhood home, you see. But my parents passed away, I don't know, six months ago, and I can't afford the mortgage, so… That's how I got involved with Metatron. I couldn't, I still can't envision moving, and he said he knew of a way to make a quick buck. He paid everything off, in exchange, he said, _"For my undying servitude."_ And, of course, more money than that."

Dean wasn't sure what was going on. he'd watched this part in movies, where people spilled their hearts out to random strangers, and had always believed it totally unrealistic. And yet here he was. Maybe Sarah was very desperate. Or afraid she would be killed before someone heard her story. Or watched a lot of crap films.

"You can't avoid it, not really. You can't avoid him. He's a man with a bank of favours, and you're the person trying to exchange yourself for one. I sold myself for this house, but now I'm selling everything for myself. I called Castiel in fits of tears, and I honestly planned on killing myself after today, and he's ruined that for me. I'll die at the hands of Metatron, because he is unavoidable. But I'll enjoy living for now. Not here, of course; that would be suicidal. But it's funny, because I only just paid off the mortgage."


	11. In Which a Car Becomes a Submarine

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 11 – In Which a Car Becomes a Submarine

* * *

As they left Sarah's house in favour of the Impala, Dean looked quizzically at Castiel, an expression only too often gracing his face in his friend's presence. For his part, the raven haired boy ignored his face, choosing to talk about the country's economic crisis to no audience. They didn't fall into step, Dean preferring to walk slower when he was deep in thought, where Cas chose to quicken his pace.

Dean was ostentatiously reminded of a piano, his feet falling flat and hard on the cobbles, for the dramatic bass line, and Castiel dancing the fast melody. He shook his head at his own pretentiousness, before he slid into the Impala, Cas adopting shotgun, and shutting up, finally.

With a sense of finality, the keys entered the ignition, and rumbled the prized car to life.

"Where now?" Dean drawled, expecting the answer to be home.

Castiel closed his eyes for a moment before answering astutely, "We must dispose of the drugs properly."

"What, the cops then?"

"No, because we'd be in possession of drugs. We should throw these into the river."

"Right then," Dean said, taking his baby out of park, "Let's go."

He tried to keep his thoughts on the road, which was much easier said than done. In the few furtive glances at his companion, he deduced that Cas was uncomfortable, in one way or another. His body was ridged, meaning every bump or dip in the road, was magnified throughout his stature. The eyes weren't screwed up, just closed lightly, though his mouth was a taut line. Dean was reminded irresistibly of his brother's first rollercoaster, except, then, Sammy had been digging his nail sharply into Dean's arm. He was also reminded of a Meer cat.

In a bid to diffuse the tension, he laid a spare hand on the knee-cap end of Castiel's thigh. It wasn't met by a jump away, which was good news, however the vibrantly blue eyes did open up and squint at him suspiciously.

"Cas, can I ask you a question?"

"Two hands on the wheel at all times," he lightly smirked, before putting his own left hand on the steering device, in place of Dean's. "And fire away."

Right, well, that went well. Now he needed a question. He pursed his lips wondering what exactly he needed to know about a seventeen year-old boy.

"What's your middle name?"

If this is a weird question, it goes unnoticed. "James."

"O.k. cool. Another question cool with you?"

At the nod, Dean tried to think of something more interesting. "Favourite colour?" Damn, so thrilling, Dean.

"Green."

Castiel never gives him anything to work with. "Great. Green's a… good colour. You got a favourite movie?"

He smiles reminiscent, "Yes."

If he keeps getting this cryptic shit, pissy Dean's gonna come out. "Do you, uh, wanna share with the rest of the class?"

"_Bambi_."

Dean almost crashed the car in exasperation. He couldn't think of anything good to say about _Bambi_, that didn't sound condescending, so he opted to thinking of another question. A real one this time.

"What's the deal with you sucking face with everybody?" It was out before he could logically think about it, but in the end it was really bugging him.

"I'm sorry?"

"Well," and here he realised his right hand was still on Cas' knee, so he quickly retracted it to scratch the back of his neck. "I saw you with that jock guy, and then the Meg chick, and then with _Jo_, doing shit…" he trailed off, vaguely embarrassed. Castiel twiddled his fingers. "You don't have to tell me, man; I was just… wondering," he muttered, just audibly, because what he really wanted to do was grab Castiel by the lapels and scream _"Tell me mother-fucker." _But unfortunately their friendship wasn't that strong yet.

"You think of kissing as something sexual, right? Or specific to a relationship. I find that it is simply an intimate gesture that should not be restricted to one person, and therefore an exercise I tend to practice with all my _willing_ friends."

Dean stared out the window (like he should have been doing, considering he was driving), as he took in this information. It was, he supposed, quite unique, but in a pleasant way. Not like how teachers describe their challenging students to parents, nor complimenting art in front of its terrible artist, but like how each make of the Chevrolet is unique, or how each lover is different, from the last. At Cas' answer, the tight feeling he hadn't before, noticed, loosened slightly, coupled with his Dad's influence of disgust. "What like, you've been kissing the whole of the jocks?" He said, scrunching up his face.

"You almost sound jealous, Dean," Castiel replied smartly, however he did not look at Dean's suddenly red face, or indeed wait for the other boy to garble through an answer. "The football team are my friends and permit me to kiss them."

"Wait, really?"

"Yes."

"Nah, man. The _whole _fucking football team? You are definitely fucking with me."

"No."

"Right, no, Cas. The football team are like the kinda dudes who say 'No homo' after everything. No way they let you kiss them."

"They do, Dean," Cas said earnestly. "And most of them say 'No homo' afterwards, anyway."

Dean snorted. "No offence man, but that's like the fucking weirdest thing. Not your kissing rule, or shit, just the jocks. How're you friends with them, anyhow?"

Castiel looked far away, like when a dog poops inside the house, and then looks around as if to say, _"I don't see shit."_

After a moment he said quietly, "They're good people, Dean."

"Yeah, O.K, dude." Dean worried slightly he had broken something with Cas, and thought it best not to leave an empty silence "What about Jo? I didn't realise you two were friends."

"Friends? I don't know but we do go way back." He smiled at Dean. "Can I ask you a question now?"

"Yeah, sure. Shoot." Dean visibly relaxed now that he knew all was good between them.

"Would you say that you have been a better father figure to your brother than your actual father?"

Dean suddenly clenched the steering wheel in a vice like grip, and chuckled falsely. "Woah, man. We're, uh, getting in some, uh, deep territories." Turning, he saw Castiel watching his reaction like a hawk. "What happened to favourite colour?" he gulped, determined to show he was unaffected by the personal enquiry. "Mine's blue."

"One last question."

Dean nodded, distrustful of his voice.

"Which is better, _Star Wars_, or _Star Trek_? I confess to not having watched either, but Jo offered to buy me one of the box sets for Christmas, but I don't know which would be more valuable."

This automatically brought all awkwardness to a halt, as Dean launched into a grand explanation of how _Star Wars_ was epically better than _Star Trek_, unless he chose the _Next Generation_, and not to listen to Sammy, because he would try to rope Cas into the new _Star Trek_ films with Chris Pine, and Zachary Quinto, which, while having its positives, is not as good or authentic as the old series. Not that the series is better than _Star Wars_, of course. And lastly he rounded off with, "Final question for you, Castiel."

Really his new found good mood should have stopped him from asking depressing questions, when instead it only spurred his confidence. At Cas' nod, he continued, "When I was at church, this morning, we (me and Sammy that is), were looking round, and um," Now it was here, his confidence suddenly faded. "There was a grave stone that…"

"Raphael?" Castiel replied dimly, his own happiness ebbing out of his eyes. For the second time that night, Dean felt he had over stepped the mark. "Yes, he died."

"Your brother?" At the affirming nod, Dean felt a rush of sympathy. He chanced a glance at Cas, who appeared to take up a lot less room than before, one foot now on the smooth leather seats. "Tough shit man." It was like the temperature in the car had dropped a few degrees, and Dean dearly wished he had kept his trap shut. But there was no point in turning back now. Besides, he could practically hear Sam's voice in his ear, screaming _'You just need to talk through it.'_ "What happened?"

The beige coat rustled. "Lung cancer. Car accident. Food poisoning. An airplane, a boat, a train. Take your pick. I don't know, I wasn't there." His eyes, or indeed his face, did not meet Dean's, selecting to look out of the window. "HOLY FUCK! DEAN."

An exclamation caused, because this was right before the moment, Dean drove straight into the river. "MOTHER-FUCKING SHIT," Dean agreed, as water lapped at the sides of the Impala. So far, it was only the nose, but it was a steep bank, and the mud wasn't exactly aiding them. "CRAPPING FUCK."

"I think Dean," Castiel breathed, as though he were giving birth. "We ought to get out."

"NO FUCKING WAY. WE ARE NOT LETTING HER SINK! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck." Dean fiddled with reverse. The car gave a great shuddering pull, before the energy was transferred into pushing the car deeper into the river.

"You just made it worse, Dean." Cas' way of dealing with sudden stressful situations was to complain about everything.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP CAS." Dean preferred to take the more socially acceptable, scream until you're horse, while concocting an awesome plan. So far, his plan had failed, and he was hard put on finding another one. Back to plan A of screeching. "RIGHT, OK. WE'RE, uh gonna, have to, uh. SHIT."

"That is not a good plan, Dean. I fail to see how it will help."

"COOL THE FUCKING SARCASM. I have an IPhone, Cas. A fucking _IPhone_. What the hell am I supposed to do about that?" The bottom of his window is starting to level with the water. "_Right_. Here we go with the plan. Cas, you get out, and pull, and I'll stay and reverse."

"Dean that will not work, just get out of the car."

"CAS THIS IS AN AWESOME PLAN. YOU GET OUT OF THE CAR." Dean felt something strike him, and he was surprised to see his undone seatbelt, and a defiant friend's face. "NOPE," he said grabbing the belt, as fast as he could. The safety catch caught on it, and it jolted in his fingers, restraining from going any further. Nerves and anger pulsated through him, and he only tugged harder, until it finally relented. Only to have Castiel undo it again. "Oh, you fucker."

"Dean, you're going to have to put your phone in the Ziploc."

"What Ziploc?" In answer, Castiel pressed into his jacket, and pulled out the bag of drugs. "Oh fuck no. I don't think you understand, Cas. This isn't a flip phone. This is an IPHONE. I CAN'T PUT IT IN A BAG OF MARIJUANA."

"Oh, grow up," Cas said, unexpectedly, and grabbed Dean's phone, despite the aneurism the blonde was in the middle of, and placed it and his own inside the Ziploc. "Now, we need to move."

Dean threw back his protests and tried to remember what he learnt from _Titanic_. "Your window isn't blocked yet, so…" and then a branch struck Cas' door. "Well, that's shit. New plan, when I open my door, water is going to flood in here…"

"Yes, I know, I'm not a child."

"Do you want to fucking live?"

"I've been trying to get you out since we started."

"Shut up. Water's gonna come in here like superfast, so I suggest we get in the back seat, so we don't drown, and then, when the car is [he gulped] fully emerged, we swim out."

"That's actually not a bad plan, Dean."

"You sound surprised. And take off your coat."

Without it, Dean belatedly realised that while he was complaining about his phone, Cas had his designer clothes to worry about. They both clambered into the back of the Impala. Dean hovered his hand above the front door on the driver's side, before turning to alert Cas. It was then he realised, just how knobbly and stick thin Castiel was. It was almost childlike how his elbows ended in a sharp point, and when he breathed in steadily, the tight shirt showed his rib-cage. Dean instinctively dragged him closer under his arm, alarmed of the effects the bitter water might have. He could feel the effects of Cas' jaw moving when he gulped. Their laboured breathing filled the air.

"Ready?"

He didn't have to look; Dean could feel the nod. Grasping the cool metal in one hand, and Cas' shoulder in the other, he said a quick prayer for his car (he'd just refurbished the upholstery), and tugged.

The silence suddenly came to life.

It had taken a tremendous force even to open the door slightly, but thankfully the current was on their side, ripping the door off within seconds, and flooding the compartment.

Dean grabbed Cas, and forced the pair of them to take shelter straight behind the driver's seat abating the waves. What first hit him was the raw temperature, and his entire body fought to remind Dean to _breathe_. So fast, he let go of Castiel to draw all his limbs in. The water did not rise steadily, it rose like the power of Stalin in communist Russia, or the income of _McDonald's_ when it introduced _McFlurries_. He had to force his face up, pressed to the roof of the car to regain oxygen and make his brain think something other than "_Fuck."_

And only then did he remember to grab Cas again.

When the other boy broke surface, his eyes burst full blue to take in the white foam cresting the water. He froze in place, and for a too long moment, Dean thought his heart had stopped, but then he spluttered, "Breathe," as the car finally sank completely. And for too long a moment Dean wondered if his own heart had stopped.

He hadn't breathed. When they plunged, his brain's only incorrigible thought was 'up.'

Which, of course, was fucking stupid.

Dean flailed idiotically, not wanting air, not desiring or even needing it. A feeling so strong it battled and collapsed his chest, attempting to pry his mouth open. It thrummed through his body, taking away thought in his head besides stealing the energy of his limbs. He was hollowed out by the wanton need. A shell.

It was abruptly a physical push on his neck. If he wanted to breathe, he couldn't. The water around him moved swiftly, something he had to notice by the rushing sound coupled with the sharp jabs to his body, because Dean's eyes could only see misty green. Until it was staring into blue.

Belatedly, he realised he was above water; a revelation that caused him to take a bottomless lungful of cool night air. Cas' hand tickled the nape of his neck. It all seemed colder, if that was possible, and so much louder. Dean's senses sparked with electricity, fighting to take in everything, now they had regained their strength. There were the colours, like a fucking rainbow had exploded, and a strong smell of blood, water and algae. There was no outside noise, as far as he could tell, just the deep pump of blood, pounding his eardrums. And stars. So many fucking stars. Or perhaps just the same one repeated a thousand times in his mind.

But then there were important things to hold on to. The small worried crease between Castiel's eyebrows. The way the pair of them kept falling beneath the current, from a fresh wave, and how, every time he fell, Cas clutched onto his collar just that little bit tighter. The river stretched on forever, stark white foam and algae in every direction. And most importantly, most essentially, the sound above his own racing heart. A raven haired boy, with hair plastered to his forehead yelling, "KICK, DEAN."

For Castiel, in the frigid river, had managed to keep them both afloat.

With a roar of annoyance at himself, Dean kicked, strong at first, though too fast to get the power. And then half-heartedly, when the water engulfed him. But strong again when Castiel's grip loosened on him, just so much, he knew Cas was giving up.

His right arm drew around his friend, and he kicked, steadily but surely, not just above the ripples emanating from the now residing in the river bed car; he headed for the river bank.

They pulled themselves out.

Here Dean wanted to say something witty. Something like "Well, that was fun," or "Much more realistic than _Titanic_," however, instead his body just shook, and his jaws clattered together while they both collapsed on the grassy side. For the purely selfish reason of more body heat, Dean brought Cas closer into his chest, and for an unforgivably self-regarding purpose, Castiel complied.

His heart beat picked up, now unchallenged. Though Dean's brain relaxed, his entire body stiffened around Cas', intent on stealing all warmth. After a minute, or maybe an hour, his breathing returned to being somewhat normal, and Cas sat up. He almost wanted to pull him back down again, but managed to restrain himself, (while letting out a small whimper).

By some miracle, Cas had managed to hold onto that khaki trench coat of his, which had both the marijuana and by definition, their phones.

"The point of you taking off your coat was that you wouldn't have the fucking weight," Dean said.

"The point of putting our cells in here was to save them, Dean." Before Dean could protest that he '_could have just taken the Ziploc_,' he continues "And the point of having this coat is to wear it, not to have it submersed."

At that point, the tell-tale siren of a police car whirred close by, and so Cas removed the phones, and tossed the respective one to Dean, before dumping the rest of the contents into the river, as planned. Fuck yeah. Following the plan.

When they turned, it was almost surprising to see two medics rushing over, and the fire brigade assessing the situation.

"Are their only two of you?"

They both nodded in unison. This apparently was good enough for them. The medics wrapped them in individual towels, and began checking their vitals. The fireman apparently were unneeded, for there was no need of a rescue, and the red vehicle pretty much turned tail and fled.

Despite being sans one, the land around the glowed with the simple bright lights of the ambulance and cop car.

Two men in basic cop uniform strode over, both looking comically serious. As they drew nearer, Dean was completely and utterly surprised to see Pimp, from the motel, striding towards him. Since the last time they had come across one another, Pimp had shaved his sideburns, to favour a goatee instead. He also looked as if he'd had his eyebrows plucked. Hopefully, they wouldn't be on bad terms. The first time they'd met, Dean had trodden on his boarhound's paw, but the second time, Dean had offered up 25 cents to the guy when he couldn't afford a bag of Cheetos.

Or perhaps this was Pimp's identical twin brother, for he gave no indication of knowing Dean when he glanced him over, though of course, the other times Dean hadn't been sopping wet and covered with muck.

"Names, please," The officer who wasn't Pimp, said. He drawled slightly, but Dean reckoned this was his actual voice rather than the cop being a condescending asshole.

"Dean Winchester." He said confidently. Castiel hadn't heard the question because he was deeply interested in watching the first aid hand go about her job. Dean, on the other hand had barely noticed his. When the officer had jotted this down, he said "And that's Castiel Novak."

"Novak?" input Pimp, not unkindly. "We've got another one of you down the station."

At this, Cas jerked awake, almost frightening the medic who was currently taking his blood pressure.

"Oh no, son," Pimp quickly assured him. "Nothing big. I wasn't really on that job, but I'm fairly sure it was just petty theft, or something of that nature." His broad tone and jovial smile for Cas' benefit, brought a rush of affection for Pimp, or Pimp's doppelganger, from Dean. "You can come down if you like."

"Weren't you going to take us anyway?" Dean asked aloud.

To his surprise, and slight embarrassment, non-Pimp (who, Dean just realised, was wearing his police hat backwards) chuckled. "Crashing your car isn't a federal offence, boy," he said, still with that faint sense of patronisation. "Just give us your licence plate and other shitty details, and we'll be out of your hair, for tonight."

It turned out for Dean that '_other shitty details'_ meant three pages of stupid ass questions. He glowered at the paper, which brought a longer laugh from not-Pimp-officer, or as he was no being christened, Accidently-a-condescending-asshole.

Once the medics had proven him fit, Cas was allowed to leave early with Pimp. Just before he left Cas twisted Dean round slightly so that he no longer faced the vehicles. With one hand he gently forced the clipboard and pen to Dean's side, and the other slid up to cup the back of Dean's neck.

Castiel had to stand on tip toes to chastely kiss Dean goodbye, for about half a second, before he muttered, "Bye Dean," and turned away quickly.

Realistically, Dean should have been still upset about his beloved Impala. Wet, cold and alone, were all possible choices. He would have even been justified with anger about the new upholstery. If Dean Winchester had any right to feel happy it was because Cas counted them friends enough to kiss him. No, there was no need to feel a great big bubble of elation, purely because Cas, _his friend_, kissed him. Yet still, when he turned to the agonizing thought of paper work, there was definitely a lot less grumbling.

* * *

**A/N: ****We're going to have to allow for a bit of artistic license here. I have never crashed my car into a river, and so my version of events are probably a wee bit unrealistic, but I didn't feel like putting myself in a potential life or death situation for this fic. I did offer up the experience to my sister, but to no avail. Anywho, I'm not sure how the emergency service would respond to having to almost drowned teens, but I'm fairly sure they wouldn't just let them wonder off home. And it's kind of unlikely that they weren't checked for other illnesses, or had their parents called. Maybe Pimp knows the situation with Dean, and knows calling parents won't help, or maybe Pimp and condescending asshole are new. Along with the medics. And the fire service that pretty much just left them to deal with the destruction. Yeah, all the other staff caught severe cooties, and are in hospital with all the trained medics. There you go. :)**


	12. The Functioning of Friendship

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 12 – The Functioning Of Friendship

* * *

Nothing could spoil Dean's mood. It wasn't an eternal happiness, more like a complete numbness, in the pleasantest way possible. Almost like all other things didn't matter very much. For instance, he wasn't bothered when he arrived home that night to have Sam screaming in his ear about where the fuck he had been, or where the fuck was the car, or why the fuck he hadn't been answering his brother's calls.

The slight irk he felt at Gabriel's presence was quickly brushed under the piss stained carpet, even managing to ruffle the kid's hair, earning a lopsided grin. And when he told the kid to "Fuck off," because it had been a long day, it was with affection.

Sam was still less than impressed at this arrival, and inordinately suspicious, but decided to quiz his brother the following morning, as, quite honestly it was one in the morning, so he didn't actually care.

And, in fact, Sam had more pressing worries.

#

The friendship of Samuel Winchester and Gabriel Novak, had been through its twists and turns for sure. First there was the incident when Gabe attacked Sam, and in response Sam broke the boy's arm. And during the following weeks, the companionship had only come weirder, thankfully sans any more damaged ligaments or bones.

For one, though Sam had only attended Waterbelle for five weeks, they had managed to fall out a total of twelve times. Well, fell out in that Sam got so annoyed, he stormed off. Miraculously, he always seemed to return. A miracle because Sam was one to be known to forgive and forget.

But he did with Gabe. Not because he thought he was wrong, or that Gabe was a good person way deep down, and not even due to that he had no more friends (actually the month and a week of school had proved Sam more popular here than anywhere else). It was a mixture of an overwhelming sense of guilt, and the slight feeling of doubt that Gabe was getting on his nerves accidently. Of course, logically, it doesn't do to willingly consort yourself with people who by nature aggravate you, however Sam liked Gabriel (and Dean hated him, which was always a bonus). The blond haired kid reminded him of a puppy. A puppy who had no friends. Besides him. There was an innate sense to protect him, he couldn't shake. And anyway, when they were in good moods (Namely Sam, Gabriel was in a perpetually good mood), the pair got on like a house on fire.

For another turn, the pair had succeeded in earning themselves a _nemesis_.

A nemesis. Not an enemy. Nor a frienemy. Not even an archenemy. A nemesis, the worst of them all. And to be absolutely fair, this kid was a motherfucking dick-head. Quite literally.

There wasn't a gigantic occasion that made the duo and Richard Roman loathe one another. It had begun to fester long before Sam's time, when Dick and Gabe both attended the Waterbelle Elementary. The first day is fuzzy to both boys, but Gabe remembers going home without his lunch, and Dick recalls returning lacking a piece of flesh.

And because Sam and Gabe were now best friends, Sam had to unconditionally hate Dick, which wasn't a hard feat. On the second day of school, Dick threatened Sam with castration when Sam stepped on his foot, which was unfortunately in a cast, something he failed to notice.

And now they were nemeses.

And the third twist in their friendship, was that they were now being joined by another kid, the only one who could really stand Gabriel, through thick and thin, even in elementary, Kevin Tran. If Sam thought he and Gabe were different, it compared nothing to the stark variance between Kevin and Gabe. The only thing linking them together was their fashion sense, and slight outsiderness.

Within the last week, another had been joining the trio. Proceeding a falling out with Mary-Jane, Jessica Moore had started hanging out with them. Sam felt like a pot of boiling water on the stove, bubbling on the inside without letting much show, while Gabriel used what happiness he had from being acquainted with a girl straightforwardly. Kevin looked, and possibly felt slightly awkward around Jess, but that was progressing slowly into something more theoretical.

They had jokingly thought of themselves as the _Marauders_. Following a lengthy discussion, of who's who, _Wormtail _was discarded, because none of the quartet were utter fuck-head, leaving Jessica to christen herself as _Lily Evans_. Kevin had fought for his right to be _Moony_, valiantly, owing to that he had _"The biggest secret,"_ out of all of them. Sam had been sceptical, as well as quite concerned to what the kid's secret was. After all, he himself had a great big whooper hidden, and Gabe looked a bit shady. And don't get him started on Jess. From all those thriller movies, and horror films, Sam was fairly sure that he shouldn't automatically trust the pretty girl who pushed herself into his life (not that he was complaining). That had left _Padfoot_ and _Prongs_ between him and Gabe, to which Gabe had quickly shot-gunned _Padfoot_, purely so Sam could be the _Prongs_ to Jess' _Evans_. Sam had blushed.

#

"I prefer rectangles, but I will agree Squares are more aesthetically pleasing."

"You will concur we are talking about 2D shapes, correct?"

"Mmhm."

"Then I'd like to ask you what the fuck you are judging 2D shapes on, apart from the way they look? And why the fuck a rectangle would ever, _ever,_ be someone's favourite shape?"

The following Monday for Dean was back to its mundane routine. French avec Not-Mr-Effing-Turnip, Home economics with What's-Their-Name, Algebra, taught by That-Bitch, and now lunch, coupled with the daily intellectual debate between Charlie and Jo.

"And what, pray tell, is wrong with the rectangle?"

Charlie let out a long suffering sigh. "There's nothing _wrong_ with the rectangle, the same way there's nothing _wrong_ with Paul McGann's performance as the Doctor, but, you know, put 'em in a line and no one's gonna say oh, _Paul McGann was my favourite Doctor_. In the same way, put all the 2D shapes in a line, there's not a voice at the back of the crowd yelling about how he loves a good rectangle."

"You can't blame me for liking the rectangle," Jo input. "I didn't choose to have you mock me!"

"Well, explain to me exactly why you like it, and I may be able to co-operate."

"I don't know, do I? You can't choose your favourite shape."

Charlie almost flipped her shit. "Of course you choose your favourite shape. How else woul…"

"_The wand chooses the wizard, Mr Po…_"

"No, no, no. You mentally choose your favourite shape. For example, mine is the triangle, because it is the strongest. You are saying that I woke up one night and saw the triangle illuminated across the starlight, and knew deep in my heart that the triangle was mine forever, which, surprisingly, _didn't fucking happen_."

"Ahh, so what you propose is that we choose our favourites mentally, meaning it is your choice to be such a giant closet fan of _Sex in the City_."

The two girls stared challengingly at one another, until Jo arched her eyebrow, leaving Charlie with a scowl, and the blonde with a triumphant grin.

"That's 11-10 to Jo," Benny acknowledges. He was taking_, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em road_, since it was out of his power to A. find new friends, or B. make his current ones shut up. If he could just walk around and find himself a new gang he'd take Dean; that loud kid with the big nose in his AP English; Andrea, a girl who was similarly smart as she was awesome and had a habit of stealing his pens; Quentin, whom he hadn't talked to, but seemed ok; Sam Winchester, if he was older; Meg, who he thought was pretty cool, and a bit alike to him and Tessa, because she was highly talkative and engaging, and it might mean that Benny wouldn't be left out in that group.

"11-10? Have I missed something?" Last Dean remembered they had not gone past 5-8 to Charlie.

"Yes," said Charlie shortly.

"Yesterday," explained Benny.

"What, what happened yesterday? Why wasn't I there?"

Jo raised her eyebrow, but it was Charlie who spat back, "Yes, why weren't _you_ there?"

Well, of course he wasn't there yesterday, because he had a rather humongous thing going on, but it would be nice to know what he wasn't invited to. "I wasn't told."

The three rolled their eyes, almost in synchronisation, which was creepy as it was cool.

"What's the point of having a fancy ass phone," grunted Jo, as she leant across the table to feel where his mobile was, "If you never," she retrieved it from his leather jacket after too much feeling around his jean pockets and nether regions, "Look at it?"

Expertly, she and Charlie made quick work of his password, before twisting it around to show him more of the principle's tweeting. He stared at the bullshit, before reading one that made sense:

_** students **__Cake bake sale 4 sun. xx U want 2 cum? Bring cake &amp; $ ;) 11am-5 #fundraising#Being#a#helpful#person_

"A six hour bake sale?"

"There were…other activities."

"Your phone smells of weed," input Charlie. Dean decided to ignore her, pointedly.

And then Jo swiped the screen to show the text messages he had received the day previously.

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD**_(a name Jo had chosen) _**9:03**_

**D. wak up &amp; cal moi.**

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD 9:10**_

**U r a lazy ashol**

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD 9:14**_

**No jk buttface**

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD 9:15**_

**That waz charls. I wuld nevr giv u rubish insult, cumbucket**

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD 9:15**_

**Wankjumper**

_**Benny L 9:15**_

**There's a bake sale. Are you going?**

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD 9:16**_

**Shitmagnet**

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD 10:07**_

**WE NEED ANSWR U MANATEE**

_**Ch-ch-ch-charlieeeey 10:13**_

**Listen Bitch. U have no other friends apart from us, so be at the school grounds 11 pronto, for a motherfucking cake sale. I donut care if u have allergies, or if yo mama is on her death bed. Beeny is driving me up the wall. he wants 2 no if u r cumming. WHich u r so… Rise to the occasion, assbutt. **

_**Benny L 10:57**_

**Pls tell me u r coming. **

_**Benny L 11:01**_

**Or if ur not. **

_**Benny L 11:04**_

**Pls answer.**

_**THE-JO-JO-BIRD 11:10**_

**ITS 4 CHARITY U HARTLESS PIG-GRINDER! FUK U**

And then the bell rung. Dean's three friends trudged off to health class, Benny lagging behind somewhat, while Dean decided what to do with his free period, before he felt a slight tap on the left shoulder. Although he prided himself on his quick reflexes, by the time Dean had turned around, Castiel was practically the opposite side of the room, his eyebrow arched slightly as if to say in his punky way _hurry the fuck up_.

They hadn't talked in the beginning of that day, which overall wasn't that surprising, since they didn't share any classes. Dean may have wondered if Cas would come over during lunch, and if he had he would have been disappointed.

But that didn't matter very much now. Now Dean was going to be with him, anyway. Excitement pulsated his nerves.

The Winchester hurried off towards Cas whilst the other boy turned sharply on his heel down the corridor, swamped with harried and sweaty students. For some reason, Cas clearly wanted their relationship to be extremely secret, leaving Dean to dodge through the crowd, searching for a tuft of scrawny raven hair, and the determined slapping sound of Castiel's feet hitting the tiles. The students thinned as they all filed off to their respective classes and Dean was just able to catch sight of the beige trench coat swishing around a corner.

Although he followed what he didn't expect was to be face to face with Cas the second he turned the bend.

"We have fifty-three minutes," Cas said stoically, unperturbed by their close proximity. He blinked a few times, and Dean suddenly had the mad idea that they were supposed to be communicating in Morse-Code. They were so near Dean could see the full definition of his dark eyelashes contrasting to his brilliantly blue eyes. Dean held Castiel's gaze.

The moment passed. In a 180 degree turn, Cas managed to twist about and continue to walk down the newly empty corridor, speaking directly and stubbornly to Dean "Fifty-two minutes."

"For what?"

Castiel looked over his shoulder, just for a split second because he couldn't slow his pace. From what Dean saw, he was mildly confused.

"Fifty-one minutes and counting," and his voice echoed as he trotted evenly down the oak stairs.

"Until?" Dean was a great deal slower on the stairs, because, hey, it was better to be safe than sorry.

"Sixth period."

Dean even paused on the stairs, palm on the splintery handrail, for a second, to maintain his tolerance for bullshit. He counted to five before letting a short sharp breath escape his lips, and following his friend.

"Great, yeah. I got that."

Castiel burst through the front exit of the school in a haze of beige. On the other hand, Dean had to wait a moment for the doors to reside in their swinging, before exiting cautiously, suspicious of what exactly they were going to be doing.

"Fifty minutes."

"You are so bullshitting me," was his response, when in reality Dean's mind whizzed with ideas of what a person could do in fifty minutes. Not even superheroes pulled off that kind of mindfuck. Normally, when it was announced the hero would have 24 hours, the audience would gasp in exhilaration. But fifty minutes was a whole deal less than a day. The time it would take to write a fifty minute essay, or have a fifty minute session of badminton (it had been a stressful week, and, quite honestly, Dean's imagination, couldn't take it).

The pair looked around, Dean, albeit, less intently than Cas, and with no real purpose. Castiel even put his hand up to his eyes to show just how serious he was about looking around. And twisted his head. Like they were in a black and white movie pre 1960.

And then he set off, the billowing khaki giving the appearance of an overgrown moth. Once again Dean followed him, or at least that was the plan before a black convertible pulled up, and Cas climbed in automatically.

For a moment Dean was lost. The loss of his Baby had not hit him until this point. Unthinkingly, he ran his hand over the night coloured _Chevrolet Camaro SS Convertible_, a vehicle designed by the same company as his beloved impala. The resemblance was not clear; Baby was from '67, and this was clearly a 21st century car. Though it may sound stupid, Dean's stomach fell through, and he could feel the impala's disappearance from his life mirrored in his body.

He raised the other hand to the body in order to steady himself. If Batman ran his own car company, this surely would have been the output. A sleek yet bulky muscle car, the front hatch coming into a dull forward point. The roof was down, however Dean's expertise in Cars knew of the thick black fabric that would blanket it. Not as good as his Baby, and, maybe it was hipster of him to say it, but not as vintage. But Chevys were a good make, and it still made his stomach twist uncomfortably.

"Get in, Winchester." Although he was sure it wasn't Cas' overly gruff voice, he still looked over to him. But, as expected, Castiel was somewhere else completely (he was in fact wondering if the car had any properties that would help it keep afloat), and it was an unanticipated face looking back.

Though, looking back, who else's car would Cas have clambered into? And who else would have a car like Batman (_or a pimp_, Dean had suddenly thought)?

The unsmiling face of Lucifer Novak, dangled in front of him, and his small anxiety of getting in the car with strangers tripled. And then tripled again.

On one hand, he trusted Castiel. On the other hand, Cas could have been manipulating him for this exact moment when he and his fuck-head of a brother would kidnap Dean and hold his body parts for ransom.

"Forty-eight minutes," said Cas impatiently from his seat in the back.

"Fuck yeah Winchester, we only have forty-eight minutes, so clamber the fuck in." Lucifer's eyes challenged him, and, well, Dean's done stupider things in life. Like driving his car into the bottom of a body of water. And almost selling his liver on e-bay. And defacing Sam's hat, only to find it was his own hat. And then using an electric shaver to take away a stripe of hair. And having then to wear a hat with the delicately painted words _I'm a poop _until his head was publicly pleasing.

The last time Dean had met Lucifer, he had tried to deliberately anger his father, before fabricating an attack John had threatened him with. And so no, Lucifer was definitely not making Dean a happy bunny.

Dean entered the vehicle (and slammed the door with a vehement ferocity just to prove how much he despised the older Novak). The second he heard the lock click, Lucifer zoomed off, leaving Dean to fumble with his seatbelt.

To say Lucifer was a dangerous driver was just about the biggest understatement of the universe's existence. A bigger understatement than saying Meryl Streep is an _OK _actress. Larger than if it was said that World War II was a _bad_ experience. The understatement that spiders can make one a little uncomfortable, pales in comparison.

A Chevrolet should never be put through that kind of torment. Lucifer drove like he was in the real life version of _Mario Carts_, the way he blew his horn at people who dared be in front of him, a true to life interpretation of _Blue Shells_.

Once Dean wedged himself in the corner between car door and seat to better stop from the jolting around, he asked "Why does your car smell of weed?" Because Dean wanted to be a little asshole that day. That, and the car stank of weed.

He looked to Castiel, as he always had the most interesting facial expressions. And there was the ensuing face of disappointment (which weirdly affected him today, as it hadn't before), but, more interestingly than that, Castiel seemed to be barely feeling the bumping of Lucifer's driving. Even when he had to suddenly push his entire body weight onto the brakes for a stop sign, on a road he was doing 25kph over the speed limit, Castiel remained unaffected.

And then Lucifer said "Why are you wearing _loafers_?" in response to Dean's obtrusive question.

"I like them," input Castiel.

This went ignored by his brother, though Dean sent him a small smile.

Sirens whirred behind them, and for a second, Dean, and perhaps Lucifer, feared the worst, before the cops blurred past them. Lucifer screamed, "AAHHHHH, NO THE FASHION POLICE; HIDE YOUR FEET."

And despite his objection that he liked Dean's choice of footwear, Castiel found this highly amusing.

When they flew over a speed bump, and Cas injected that they had thirty-nine minutes, Dean felt that they had travelled far enough for him to ask "Where are we going?"

Lucifer took both hands off the wheel, to swivel around and openly glare at him. Apparently, avoiding answering the question was hereditary. And then he said, after thankfully returning at least one palm to the steering helm, "Do you kids wanna have some gum?" Which sounded like an illegal business in his tone of voice.

They both refused, neither eager to make Lucifer do something with his hands other than steer.

It took a few more minutes, and a good deal of seconds, before Lucifer pulled up at a garage. For a shitty driver, the guy could parallel park like a Tetris pro.

What the fuck could be going on here, Dean had no clue. And a quick look at Castiel's blank and un-foreboding face gave no indication. The trio hiked to the entrance of the Auto-mobile shop. Dean had hoped that Lucifer would wait in the car, or go off and do things dick heads do in their spare time. The whole thing fully confused him. Why was Lucifer being let in? Sure he was Cas' brother, but when people were going to do a jumper, they probably wouldn't be looking for the devil to come and talk them down. Did Cas not trust him to do a better, or at least equal job as Lucifer? Though he hadn't been so ignorant as to think that this was something being shared purely between the two of them, it had certainly _felt_ like it…

In single file, they went through the door and through the wooden foyer (and by this Dean means that the whole thing was made of fucking tree, like he was walking through the Secret Garden 2: Recycling).

Dean felt like he had been punched in the gut, because a sudden gap, from loss, was filled. For there, in the middle of the room resided his baby. A few pieces of river scum clinging to the hood as well as torn upholstery, but completely and utterly his beloved impala.

* * *

**A/N**** It took me just under forever to decide on Lucifer's car! And it doesn't matter that much, but if you can be bothered to make my efforts not in vain, the _Chevrolet Camaro SS Convertible _is a seriously awesome car. I did consider the '65 Mustang, which was originally going to be Dean's car, but it wasn't Lucifer's thang. The chevy is probably way out of his price range, but I'm sure there's an escape clause somewhere :D and thanx to all my lovely reviewers. :DD****  
**


	13. What To Do When You're The Youngest

**Trigger Warning: Cancer, Main Character death, thankfully not in this particular chapter, however I think it's best to warn you what this fic will be concerning in the future and give you fair warning, though I will also be putting the particular warnings on the according chapters as well. Keep safe. :]**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 13 - What to do when you're the youngest

* * *

The Impala was certainly not in its best condition, and Dean, although being good with his hands, might not have been qualified to sort it out, yet the water-glinting car was a solid reminder of every moment that had touched his heart.

And Castiel had banked some favours: his car could stay in the garage as long as Dean needed to fix it, which could take a while.

On one hand, his Dad had left them emergency money, which was currently stashed secretly in their motel room. But emergency money was just that: crisis cash. The savings totalled enough for Dean to go to college, when he would hopefully be able to double as a worker and save money to get Sam his college education. This, however, was more of a plan to keep Sam happy. Neither Dean, nor his father, really expected Dean to go to college, and so the emergency dollars were really Sam's, so he could barely use them to fix his car.

The other option was for Dean to learn the skilled art of repairing a vehicle, which, hopefully, wouldn't be too problematic, as this was the option he was truly considering. This would generally be a mixture of book work, and trial and improvement (and, also failure would probably make a substantial presence in there somewhere).

But hopefully – hopefully – it would all be alright in the end.

#

The following day was the beginning of June, and Sam, who had been spending an inordinate amount of time studying his ass off, took the time off of being bored (or perhaps literary fascinated) in the library, to take up Jo's offer of joining them in the Roadhouse. He had gone the long way round, because Gabe insisted that Sam walk him at least half way to his home, as if he didn't have six other siblings going exactly the same way. Thankfully, it didn't bother Sam too much; although Gabriel had complained of a headache the whole way, it was good to know that he'd be able to get some aspirin, and be good as new tomorrow. And by God, wasn't Sammy turning into Dean?

As it happened, when Sam entered the almost empty oak-furnished bar, neither Jo, nor his brother were present. He was quickly waved over by Ellen's voice that was coming out of a back-room.

"Winchester, that you?"

With only a small noise rendering from his light feet on the oaken floor, Sam ducked beneath the staff gap in the bar, to peep his shaggy head through the door frame of Ellen's office.

Upon the wooden desk was enough paper work and bulging folders for even the aspiring librarian Sam was, to shrink in fear. Ellen budged a few papers on the floor to make way for the latest piece of finished work, before she had a chance to raise her pencil-burnt hand in greeting, without looking up.

"Hi," Sam greeted awkwardly.

Ellen leant back, taking a brief pause to sharpen her pencil (which actually turned out to be a failure, and instead she produced another, identical writing instrument from the depths of her bra). With a small flick of her head, the building owner indicated that Sam should step in deeper into the depths of an accountant's nightmare.

"They're in Jo's room." Ellen inclined her head slightly to an open door to her right. Sam stood stock still for a moment, before deciding that this was probably an invitation for his to venture to Jo's room, and began to gawkily shuffle between the mounds of work, littering the floor. It was only when he reached the desk, after an inelegant three and a half minutes of making about three steps that Ellen spoke again:

"And can you give this to Jo?"

As her right hand continued to scribble figures, she bent down over the desk to allow her left to grab a sizable brown parcel, which she passed over her head in one swift movement.

"Yeah, sure," Sam agreed. He attempted to grab the package in one hand like Ellen, but his muscles failed him, and he had to quickly elevate the other arm to prevent the bundle from falling onto Ellen's head. The weight of it made Sam's arms droop like a monkey's. Although he succeeded in not groaning out loud, he could not deny the sudden whoosh of air that escaped his lungs.

With a new stunted gait, Sam continued his path.

"Oh, Sam."

He made a strangled noise in return.

"If they're smoking pot in there the code word is _carrot_. And don't take none. Don't let them pressure you."

"Umhm," he assured her.

"Good kid."

Sam drew in another breath to gather him strength for his trip. At the door way he heard Ellen speak.

"Sam?"

"Uhuh?"

"Do you want some lemonade?"

"Nuhuh, thanks."

And he continued.

The door (an oak one, surprise, surprise) led to a long corridor, which was blessedly empty, and so he could release his masculinity and place the package on the floor.

Slightly out of breath, he raised his voice to ask "Ellen, is this fragile?"

"Nah." Which was permission enough for Sam to begin kicking it to Jo's room. The passage was narrow, and Sam had always been crap at soccer, and so he hoped to fucking God that Ellen had taken his question seriously.

About halfway down, Sam located the source of whispered noise, and decided that this must indeed be Jo's bed chamber. As he slowed down, however, he could not hear the male voices of neither his brother, nor Benny. This was clearly explained, when Sam looked through the ajar room to notice a toilet, which presumably, wasn't in Jo's room. Both Charlie and Jo were slightly to the left, and hadn't noticed the doggish brown eyes perversely looking in.

Their conversation topic concerned how cows, who could have complex relationships, could also get lonely when separated from their best friends. Thus, the pair also begun referring to one another affectionately as cows.

Sam decided to intervene, and coughed loudly, whilst sliding into the bathroom. Jo turned around to grin and ruffle Sam's pubescent hair, with a slightly damp hand, as Charlie simply called "Hello, whoever the fuck you are," because she was painfully busy with the task at hand, which resembled something like vigorously washing an unnaturally minuscule flask.

"It's Sammy," said Jo as Sam said, simultaneously, "It's Sam."

"Oh, hey Sammy," and she threw her red hair out of the way to see him, grinning like a Cheshire cat.

"Hi."

Jo dried the remnants of liquid on her hands on the Sam's flannel shirt, while asking, "Do ya wanna go down to my room? We're just refilling our bottle of bubbles." This was visually evidenced by Charlie giving a great spurt of liquid soap into the tepid water of the sink, before mixing it with a certain demonic power.

"Oh, Ok."

Jo, apparently, could not resist the beautiful wonder of Sam's hair, and screwed it up again. Unfortunately, the same spell was cast on Charlie, who had sopping wet palms.

Sam sulkily departed the bathroom, and when he resumed kicking the parcel, it was certainly a little more violently.

"It's the last room on the left," Jo called after him.

Which, actually, was kind of obvious. On the face of her door, Jo had plastered as many AC/DC posters physically possible, but, rather contrary to what Sam had discovered of her personality, peering beneath them were some frayed calculus posters.

Sam left the parcel for a moment to attempt the cool hexagonal door knob. It opened slightly ominously, into a pitch black room, and he half expected Dean to jump out and punch him in the face (a method Sammy had employed a couple years ago, which had led to Dean's bloodied jaw, and an eternal swear of revenge). After a moment it became apparent that his brother wasn't about to eat him alive, and Sam chanced sneaking his entire form into the room.

The first thing that hit him was the overpowering stench of nacho cheese, and Dean's chilli-dog breath. One hand masking his face, he speedily began searching for the light switch.

Ahah.

As expected, light flooded the room, but in a deep green filter, so it was a moment for Sam's eyes to adjust and notice the mess piling high in the room, or the great computer system giving off a loud whirring noise and the sizable lump in the bed.

"Hello hombre."

Finally, Sam's hazel orbs fully corrected themselves to see, a very confident, very naked teen, sporting an award-winning mullet.

Sam gave out an unmanly scream, albeit it did only last about two seconds, before turning tail and fleeing the room.

Jo was pissing herself.

Sam only blushed harder.

"Did I say left? I meant right. Sorry kiddo; that's my brother's room."

The guy in question, shoved his head round the door, and, as far as Sam could see from his chest, still in his naked glory. "Hey, señoras y hombre."

"Whatever, Ash," Jo teased sweetly before pushing him into the room by his head, and slamming the door shut. For a third mother-fucking time, Jo decided it would be appropriate to maim Sam's hair, whist giggling softly. "I taped your reaction, if you wanna see."

Sam just gave her his best Bitch Face.

Charlie chose this moment to exit the bathroom, shaking the soapy mixture. With a rehearsed saunter, her jean clad legs waltzed into the room opposite Ash's.

Now this was Jo's room. The door was actually quite similar to her brother's, in that it possessed some rock and roll posters. In addition to this, however, Jo had also stuck on posters of typical girl things, which she had heavily defaced with a red marker.

And inside, blessedly, all inhabitants were clothed.

Jo forcefully pushed Sam's head into her room, before slamming the door.

From what he had viewed of the Roadhouse so far, this was certainly his favourite.

The main bar, whist being nice in the traditional sense, was just that: too conforming. The office, of course, was far too busy for Sam to really notice any architectural phenomenon, which could have possibly lurked there. Ash's room could have been acceptable, if not pleasant, if it weren't for that stench.

This part of the building was perhaps newer than the rest of it, or possibly intended for a purpose that needed a lot of light and a cool breeze. The perimeter of the room that looked to the outside, was almost all glass, which could be covered with a series of navy blackout curtains. The theme appeared to be sailor orientated, since the room revolved around this deep blue colour and white stripes. Beneath the far wall was a raised platform, covered with throw cushions (and one fluffy toy, the arm of which was sticking out between a pair of particularly plump pillows). Like the rest of the place, the floor was a solid oak, matching the bed frame, the desk and the wardrobe. This wasn't to say that the place was spotless. It was perfectly clear that someone slept here, with piles of miscellaneous objects that looked like they had been abandoned in an attempt of organisation. A grubby bra balanced precariously on a shelf. Similar to her door, the windowless wall space had been massacred with pictures of varying degrees of insanity. Here and there, were the tell-tale corners of old posters, where fads had come in and out of fashion, as they do.

With familiarity, Jo collapsed on to her bed, where Charlie was currently perched whilst blowing the freshly made bubble mixture into perfect spheres. Dean and Benny had found seats on the desk chair and the floor, respectively and were in profound conversation about something completely uninteresting.

"There's a parcel out there for you," Sam said awkwardly, surveying his choice of seats.

In reply, Jo blushed faintly, and thrust her entire body up in one smooth motion, to retrieve said object.

"Hey, Sammy, good to see you made it," Dean grinned, when he noticed his brother's presence, and then proceeded to raise his eyebrows when Jo re-entered the room, the bound box on her fingertips.

"Wha's the present, Joanna-Beth?" Charlie pushed.

Jo just turned a deeper shade of pink, and shoved the whole package under the bed. Or at least attempted to.

"Charlie, move your fat cankles out of the way."

The pair had a short staring contest, before Charlie shrugged, with a soft smile and hoisted her legs off the floor to fold them beneath her ass. Jo propelled the whatever it was, so that it fitted neatly under her bedstead. She joined her friend on the duvet.

"Get over here, Sam," said Jo, jovially, and, per her request, he rested himself on the edge.

Benny took out his phone.

"Who's for braiding Samantha's hair?" the blonde sang, her hands, once again, winding themselves into the lushness that was the thin string which protruded from Sam's scalp. Apart from the fact that the ruffling had messed up his hairstyle, he hadn't really minded the feeling. This, however, was a completely different approach. Jo was investigating like they were baboons infested with fleas.

"He already does that himself," teased Dean, who had trotted over to join in the action.

"Jerk," Sam said aloud. If he had tried curlers one night, no one had to know.

"Ok, Li'l bitch."

"Wait, no. I have a better idea. Take off your shirt, Sam."

Benny, and Charlie, who had been uninvolved up to this point, turned to Jo suspiciously, and indeed, Sam would have copied their expressions, if Jo wasn't holding the back of his head (or at least the reins of it).

"What? I'm just gonna draw on your back. No, we'll all draw on your back, it'll be a communal activity."

Now if this were Dean saying this, Sam would be running a hundred miles in the opposite direction screaming something or other about ink poisoning, but at the moment he was stuck in a teenage girl's room, the occupant of which could probably outrun him one-hundred to one.

"I'll do it afterwards," Jo added.

And that pretty much settled it.

As he was stripping off the flannel, he felt his leg buzz with excitement. Oh no, shit that was just his phone, and if anything he would be buzzing with fucking nerves, because Sam was thirteen and undressing for two seventeen year old girls, his brother and Benny, who doesn't get a fancy title. In years to come (or actually considering how level headed Sam was, it was basically in the hours that came after this), he would regard this moment as one of his most fool-hardy and reckless, which really says a lot about him, doesn't it?

It was a text from Gabe who wanted to know if it was normal that he kept pronouncing words with 'st' in them incorrectly. Sam pushed the phone back into his pocket without replying, and then gathered up his strength for removing his T-shirt.

Although from Charlie's lying down perspective Sam was blocked by Jo, she still wolf-whistled, when Sam accidently threw his shirt over her eyes.

"Pass us a marker, Charles, and one for Dean…thanks. Sam, get on your stomach."

He obliged, shuffling down the worn covers to position himself. It was pleasantly soft beneath the slight plush of his tummy. For a moment, Sam crossed his arms and laid his head atop of it, to survey the room, however Jo admonished this, and gently pushed his face down.

Click. Someone had removed a pen lid.

Sam squirmed considerably, when he felt something feathery tickle the insensitive skin.

"Hold still," said Jo, almost like an army general. She gently pressed her palm into the dip of his back to stop his moving. Sam calmed.

The tip of the pen was wet, and the liquid easily spread through the immediate lines of his skin, and if he concentrated too hard, and squeezed his eyes too tight, Sam could almost feel the ink run deep into him, and through to his blood stream. The way Jo held the pen was far too loose and light, and the ticklish feeling started all over again.

Another click. Hopefully Charlie had elected to join in, but no such luck.

"Ouch, Dean," Sam's muffled groan said.

His brother's marker had been used with a hell of a lot more pressure.

"So, Sam," Jo breathed onto Sam's bare back. "Got a girlfriend?"

Sam shook his head, "No."

"Ahh, a boyfriend?"

"What? No." And Sam did somewhat notice the increase of pressure Dean's marker had.

"Don't sound so appalled, Sammy," Jo reprimanded, sweetly. "We're all open here. Isn't that right Charles?"

"Do you prefer purple or green, Sam?" Charlie pointedly ignored Jo.

"Purple," Sam said, whist twisting his neck to find the best vocal advantage. A third click, and the pen began writhing on the base of his back, dangerously close to his belt. "Sure you don't wanna join in, Benny?" From what Sam could hear, he guessed that Dean had thrown Benny the spare marker to accompany Sam's remark.

"No, I'm fine, thank you."

The pens were strangely relaxing, a repetitive motion that could sometimes stretch out to the more pressure sensitive parts of his body, like the giving flesh of his shoulders and the blades.

The tickling sensation came back.

"Ok, Sam, you don't have a girlfriend, got it. But, any pretty girls you've got your eye on?"

In a fit of embarrassment, Sam dug his face deeper into the bed, very pleased that he was out of the way of Jo's prying eyes. Desperately, he tried to force down the name that immediately came to mind.

He could just about sense Dean's smirk. "Well, there's that one chick, isn't there Sammy?" And his brother's cold, calloused fingertips pushed into him marginally. Dean always knew exactly what to say to make Sam seem like an eight year old. "Jennifer, was it?"

Sam raised his head fractionally to reply, in a tone of annoyance "Jessica."

"Right, yeah, that was it."

"Oooh, _Jessica_," Jo murmured softly. "I think I'll write her a little note, right here." She positioned her pen a little way left of its previous place.

"Good idea, Jo," Dean spoke with a predatory lilt to his tone. "I think I might just do the same." Sam tensed slightly.

A moment passed, before the three began to stagger their putting the caps on the markers. Sam sat up and reached for the flannel.

Jo beamed. "My turn." She criss-crossed her arms to hold her shirt at the hem, and even Benny managed to find the interest to look up from his mobile. Giving Sam a hearty wink, Jo slowly dragged the tank-top over her flat stomach, revealing a small scar that ran from her bellybutton. And then, "Oh, shit, wait, that's my phone." She dropped the shirt back down over her navel, to answer the text. "I'll bet it's God, punishing me with a crap ad for PPI claiming 'cause I dared to be too frisky."

There was a rare moment of quiet between four guests, as they waited for Jo to _get on with it_.

"Wait a moment, guys." Jo swung her hips over to one of the windows, and nudged it open.

A hand appeared on the window ledge.

"Dean, you're strong. Get your ass over here."

With a slightly confused expression, the Winchester in question followed the order, which turned out to be useless. In the few short seconds it took Dean to stride the length of the room, Castiel managed to pull himself up, and reasonably gracefully at that.

* * *

**_A/N What did you think of Sam's P.O.V?_**

**_* 5/10/14 - A/N Right, when I posted this at 3:30 in the morning, it din't really occur to me that I'm not a particularly great writer, and the message of this chapter may be unclear (and kind of really perverted). In my mind, it's a chapter to show the differences of age concerning sex. This is taken from Sam's POV, who, in his eye, is half naked in a teenage girl's bedroom, who is kind of controlling him, in the diplomatic sense, which, in his pre/pubescent mind, is kind of sexual. And, hopefully, Jo came across as the opposite. For her, she was having some sibling-esque banter with Sam, as she drew an atomically correct cock on his back. The 'tickling' should be taken lightly,'cause, after all, Sam had his face squished into the bed, and so I couldn't really visually describe the proceedings. Hope that clears things up for the more disturbed of y'all :D_**


	14. The Labyrinthine House

**A/N. Yeah, I haven't updated in a while, which is simply horrible, but I have the excuse of exams, though I'd still like to apologize :/**

**But 40 followers! And thank you for the reviews on the previous chapter :)**

* * *

**The Recreational Saviour**

Chapter 14 - The Labyrinthine House

* * *

Castiel placed one hand either side of the ledge to boost himself up, before dragging himself inside, and was faced immediately with a beaming Jo.

"Hi," she gushed, as though he had entered through the door like an ordinary person, rather than a window like an escaped criminal.

"Jo," he acknowledged, placing his feet flat on the ground before surveying the room (Sam still hurrying to sort out his state of half undress). Today, he looked quite ordinary, the clothing labels being relatively cheap, and plain. Of course, he was also a bit ruffled, what with a singular pinecone knotted into his hair, and a couple scratches dotting the visible skin- which was, albeit, not much because he wore that trench coat.

Dean, who had already hurried over to him, thought he ought to put himself to good use. "Cas, you've got a… No just wait." His right hand began fiddling with said pinecone as gently as possible, whilst his left fiddled blindly on the desk behind him for scissors. It took him a minute to realise that he was just running his fingers over the same place of wood, such was his concentration on his right hand. Dean didn't know what the fuck Cas had done, but the cone was tightly curled beneath Cas' soft, messy hair.

Once he had stabbed himself, Dean knew he had found the pair of scissors. "Just stay still a moment," not that Castiel had moved even slightly since he had begun.

Although he already had a slight height advantage, Dean felt himself stand on tip-toes, and press the length of his body against Cas'. For a moment, it seemed quite normal, until Dean quite realised what he was up to and flushed slightly from the neck, but he couldn't exactly stop now. Instead Dean began to make awkward conversation. "Nearly there now. Just trying to avoid giving you a bald patch. Don't want to ruin your chances of succeeding in life; your hair's your best bit," a sentence that sounded a lot straighter and cool in Dean's head.

"Oh, I don't know," mused Castiel. "I thought George Washington pulled one off fairly attractively."

Dean scoffed at that. " Friend, no. George Washington is not the one person you're supposed to think off when you are thinking of attractive going-bald-s."

"Yes. Who is the optimum half head of hair person then, Dean?"

"Jude Law."

In the background, there was some indistinct voices, probably muttering that Jude Law was, in fact, adequately hairy.

"Who? And, Dean, are you forgetting the royalty of threadbare heads? Prince William."

"What? Is that Snow White?"

"…The English Prince, Dean. The Duke of Cambridge."

"I think we should agree to disagree," said Dean, who had finally managed to retrieve the pinecone from the feathery down. He faced Cas straight on, smiling.

Surprisingly, Castiel mirrored the expression. "I think that would most applicable to the situation at hand."

Dean stepped back slightly, and saw the slightly raised eyebrows of everyone else in the room. Even Sammy had the gall to look disbelieving.

And on that note, Sam decided to speak up. "Why'd you come through the window?"

With a small amount of confusion etched on his face, Castiel turned his whole body the full 90 degrees needed to face Sam. "Well I was coming from that direction." He pointed lamely out of the window. "I would have been unproductive to go round the whole building in order to reach this room."

Umm, duh, Sam.

Sam, who was still a little bitter at not having seen Jo's boobs, continued, "And why're you here?"

"Well, I appeared to have a pinecone in my hair, and knowing Dean's expertise, I decided to head over straight away." There was a small silence in the room, broken only by Benny's incessant loud tapping on his phone, and Charlie's rustling on the bed sheets. "That was a joke."

Dean snorted impolitely.

"I am, in fact here," said Cas, "For you Dean, if you'd like to come."

Although he couldn't stop the smile that tugged at his cheeks, Dean did manage to supress the 'Hell yes' that threatened to arise. "Sure. Sam, you Ok if I leave."

"Dean," Sam answered piss-ily. "I'd love it if you left."

In response, Jo laughed very loudly, Charlie rolled about on the bed like a sausage with a coughing fit and Benny let out a short exhale of breath through his nose. Even Cas let a very small smirk grace his face.

"Right then. Got the key, Sam-o?"

"Yes," came the blunt answer.

"Fine. Wait, we're not going out the window are we?"

Castiel tilted his head to the side, slightly. "Why would you think that, Dean?"

Sam rolled his eyes at the pair.

"Bye then, losers," called out Jo, as Dean and Castiel parted the room. The last thing Dean saw when he turned to close the door, was Benny looking very, very lost.

"Right, where are we off to?" Dean asked as they trudged down the oak corridor, sliding slightly on escaped bubble mixture.

"Lucifer said he'd meet us outside here."

"Uggh,"Dean let out, unapologetically. "Sorry man, but that brother is definitely not my favourite."

"Why? Is that Gabriel?"

"Ha ha ha," he said stiltedly. "Nope. Not that twat either…No offence."

"Balthazar?"

No, no and no again. And let me tell you a story why. After meeting Balthazar at church, the fucker had started tailing Dean more and more eccentrically. And how do you stalk someone eccentrically, you ask? Well at first, it had just been that Dean had started noticing Balthazar more and more. He could, in the beginning, attribute this to not knowing who Balthazar was beforehand, and that's why Dean was suddenly so surprised to see Balthazar everywhere he turned. There were some weird things, like Balthazar being the life-guard at the local pool, and saved Dean when he was perfectly fine. Or stood underneath the bleachers where Dean was sitting. But there were some things that Dean couldn't explain away, like why Balthazar was always waiting outside his classroom door, or why he brought binoculars to the park ad spent the whole time focused on Dean.

But Dean who had just insulted two of Cas' brothers didn't have the confidence to say another negative thing. He made a non-committed noise and said "What about those other two? The younger ones?"

"Inias and Alfie?"

"Yes, them. They're good." (Well, actually, Inias wasn't that great because on their second encounter the kid had stabbed Dean with his mathematical compass). "They are my definite favourites."

"What do your opinion of Rachel and Anna?" For the life of him, Dean couldn't think why Castiel wanted, or valued his opinion.

"Well, Rachel is what? 15?" Castiel gave a brief nod. "Yeah, well, don't see much of her, to be honest, but…" And in here, Dean may have wanted to add _"I think she's a complete bitch."_

As a rule of thumb, Dean didn't think that Rachel was actually that bad. As a matter of fact, from the reports he'd heard of her, she seemed like a swell character. It was just this teeny-tiny problem; she hated Dean's guts. Rachel appeared to have glowing reports from everyone she met; she participated in charity work, supported equal rights, sang at bar mitzvahs, wrote tear-jerking eulogies for people she'd never met, and wrote the advice column in the school newspaper. The whole deal. But she also had a deep seated desire coursing through her veins, to tear off Dean's scrotum, and pin it to his forehead with a staple-gun. Unfortunately, she never failed to make this obvious, whether by glowering at him from a distance, colliding into Dean a full speed in the hallway, sticking threatening notes to his locker, and once, even throwing a horseshoe from lost property at his head. But yes, she was a delightful person.

Anna, on the other hand, was somewhat different, and a whole lot more preferable. At fourteen years old, she stood was shorter than both Gabriel and Inias. Alfie was about an inch off her height. Being three years older than her, meant that Dean never really saw her, or he wouldn't if their lockers weren't so close. As it happened, whenever Dean approached his locker, Anna would probably be in some deep meaningful conversation with some flake. And every single time, they would abruptly stop talking. It often played on Dean's mind, however, Anna would then politely say hello to him, and give him a smile (to which the flake would mirror, if slightly forced) which was a far better alternative to her spiteful sister's scare tactics.

"Yeah, she sounds pretty ok. And Anna's pretty cool."

Castiel inclined his head slightly to this. He furrowed his eyebrows just slightly, but apparently the interrogation was over.

And so Dean started up his own.

"What do _you _think of Sammy?"

Without a pause for thought, Castiel said "I think the bond you share is somewhat co-dependant albeit desperately needed by both of you, considering."

Surprisingly, the rage that dragged it's way up Dean's chest, was strong but fleeting. Instead of the biting back remark of _"Considering what?"_, had to be said with a small glare.

"What I hope to convey is that it must be difficult for both of you to keep friends due to your moving around."

Dean managed a small smile.

They stopped at the front of the Roadhouse, which was vacant of Chevrolets. Well, for about ten seconds.

A raw of an engine hollered into their ears. The dirt path that had been empty from what Dean had last saw, was abruptly the gallant runway for a billowing of dust. A black shadow halted next to them.

Without meaning to, Dean had retracted slightly, or at least what he had considered slightly. As the dust faded from his vision, he awkwardly realised that his left foot was in the Roadhouse, quite a way from Castiel who was motionless a good ten foot ahead of him.

Predictably, Lucifer, in his shirtless glory, climbed halfway out his car window to glare pointedly at Dean, the alternative to barking an insult at him, which was hard with the several cigarettes littering Lucifer's mouth.

Castiel clearly expected him to follow, for he didn't even bother turning to look at Dean. It didn't matter, of course; yes, Dean was coming.

#

Lucifer was strangely silent the way to wherever the fuck they were going. Despite his agitation and uncomfortableness, Dean did not break the quiet, and Castiel, who busied himself with daydreaming about boats, also remained reserved.

Dean didn't gaze out the window whilst they blurred by, for fear of throwing up and in preference of concentrating on keeping reasonably in his seat. And so, when the car stopped with a particularly violent_ umph_, he was surprised (and kinda disappointed) to see that they had drawn up to a sinister neighbourhood.

As far as the eye could see were the compact red-bricked houses, of smashed windows and cheap doors. It didn't bother Dean very much considering he, himself, was very familiar to cheap home comforts, but the idea of what they could be doing made his hair stand slightly on edge. But by God, if there was a problem, he was going to fix it.

Unfortunately, Lucifer appeared intent on following them, clambering out of the car with a pitiable bout of grace. Less venomous than normal, Dean gave him a short glower. Lucifer chuckled slightly, and tousled Dean's hair a tad.

Dean followed the quick, determined footsteps of Castiel, into one particularly grubby house. Suspiciously, he already had the key. Despite the grimy interior, Castiel clearly thought it customary to wipe his feet on the door mat. Dean didn't bother, and neither did Lucifer, for that matter.

The two Novaks' faces deterred Dean from inquiring about the narrow, carpet-less hallway system; from his vantage point, the dim passage gave the impression of an infinite spider, as they passed by even narrower side channels, branching from the main walkway. Every couple of steps required him to duck his head, an act, which, regrettably, was easy to forget. Castiel, in front, was just short enough to carry on without hindrance, and Lucifer, behind Dean, stooped well-rehearsed after Dean bent or else cursed, vehemently.

Castiel performed a 90 degree turn, and shuffled into a left hand canal. Why, the network must have taken up the whole block, for they were certainly out of bounds to where the house should've stopped.

Unexpectedly, Castiel's head bobbed down slightly. With some half-assed notion of saving him, Dean lurched forward, not in time to realise that the adversary was steps.

"Shit," he practically squealed whilst his foot stumbled down the first stair. Lucifer chuckled into his ear, afore giving Dean's head a jovial push, nearly causing Dean to lose his newly regained footing.

In the absence of a hand railing, Dean ran his hands over the jarring whitewashed walls, as they traipsed further down. It was in the middle of the staircase, that Castiel located a door on his right hand side. Gently, he nudged it open, before slipping inside, closely followed by the other two.

Now, Dean had never had the time to watch _Breaking Bad_, but he had seen a few screen shots, and this room, for best explanation, very much resembled _Walter White's_ meth lab. That, or the Potion's classroom at _Hogwarts_.

The room was relatively large, yet windowless, and therefore gave off a more confined effect. It had dropped about 3 degrees in here. Dean walked curiously to some of the suspicious liquids on display, and smelt them, experimentally. He felt kind of woozy.

Castiel and Lucifer, on the other hand, did not waste time investigating petty things like worm shaped flasks. Instead they opted to pull on a dull white lab coat and latex gloves, before pulling something out of the cupboard behind them.

"The fuck is this dump?" Questioned Dean, as he moved on to a blown up version of a snail looking bottle.

"My house," said Lucifer coolly.

Well, Lucifer and Castiel lived in separate places, so Dean didn't feel very abashed. He simply brought his head up from a distilling kit to raise his eyebrow at Lucifer, questionably.

"Well, no offence man, but I think I'll stick to motels."

And, although Lucifer shoved his middle finger up at Dean, he didn't give the impression of being pissed off. A bit bored maybe.

Dean strode over to the pair, who stood in front of a rectangular white plastic box.

"What's that?"

Lucifer looked at him disparagingly.

With a gulp to steel himself, Castiel answered his query by gently prising off the lid, and laying placing it beneath the container.

And there were five fingers to the elbow, stiff from rigor mortis, complete with a bluish ting about the tips of the digits. The pliant smooth skin of the forearm, had been ripped apart in a crude symbol to demonstrate soft supple flesh. Though it must have been a painful experience, the fingers did not imitate a clenched fist. Instead they were splayed out, arching the palm, exhibiting a sense of surrendering and dashed hopes. The fingernails had been prised off, leaving angry red skin.

Perhaps as a mark of respect the three all looked away. Or, of course, it was an expression of nauseousness.

Castiel was the first to overcome the feeling, and reach into the box.

"Who?" said Dean, with such a strong, authoritative voice, he even caught himself with surprise.

"I have a theory," replied Castiel, much lower, while handling a swab. He shuffled away to a piece of equipment in the corner. "Sarah Blake."

"Bloody thing," Lucifer remarked, distastefully, lighting up a cigarette. "Fucking idiot." Though he had this show of bravado, Lucifer seemed unwilling to look back into the container, and, overall, gave the impression of having better things to do.

"Where'd you get it?" asked Dean. After recovering from the initial shock, he found himself unreasonably unsurprised at the fact Lucifer had someone else's limb in his house. Actually, more than the wave of disgust he was experiencing, white hot anger was gnawing at his heart. Sarah Blake, the girl they had visited, who had been so terrified of becoming next on Metatron's hit list. The one they clearly hadn't saved. And if he looked closely at the forearm, he could recognise those Ancient Runes her father had carved into his desk which he had faced to the window and he had had a pocket telescope to see the stars. The girl who had, in a fit of madness, sold her soul for her home.

Lucifer faced the far wall, and, without bothering to remove the smoke, said "Outside Jeremy's."

"Jeremy's?" Dean all but swore. The fury engraved his heart with teeth marks.

"Whore house." Lucifer could only respond to Dean's growing anger, by becoming cooler and more contemplative.

Dean gripped onto the wood surface, and waited on an expansion from Lucifer. The minutes flew past. With a growing ache in his fingers, Dean tried to control the angry breathing.

It may have been hours, or mere seconds –time was so out of proportion- before Lucifer deigned to speak again. "It's a collection point."

"For?"

Lucifer twirled around and gave him a shit eating grin. "Depends what you're selling."

He was glad when Castiel's voice rang clear in the silence. "I have a match."

Dean's breathing laboured; he braced himself slightly over the table.

"It _is_ Sarah Blake."

It's funny how in life time is all out of proportion. You'd think from the steady hand of a clock, that each second would be identical, and that every minute would be of equal length. And, it's always strange when you read a book, and the characters constantly describe that first kiss as a moment that existed outside of time, like it lasted forever in a short space of time. Or when they say time stopped, when in fact the world continue to spin, and the sun rose and set.

You'd imagine that time like this couldn't happen in accordance with every dreary science lecture you've sat through. It's just common sense.

But they don't mean time stopped. It's more like how they say you have enough DNA in your body, that, if you unravelled it, it would reach the sun and back a hundred times. It's more to do with having enough information in a second to last you a year.

The first kiss in a movie doesn't mean time has accelerated or decelerated. The theoretical emotions are just so strong and quick, we rationalise that time must have quickened in ratio of them. And when time stops, it's because of the lack. Time is an irrational concept.

Dean, however, had not been kissed. The knowledge of Sarah Blake stole his breath, and time paused in disbelief.

And then God pressed fast forward. The guilt, anger, confusion and terror hit him so stabbed him so fast, it was simply an impossibility to acknowledge them, let alone suffer under them.

"_Oh, FOR FUCK'S SAKE_." Dean ricocheted backward from the pure volume of his own voice. "We could have_ fucking_ saved her. Shit."

Castiel looked up, unexpectedly, and guilt slammed its way forcefully into Dean's heart.

"I think we may have had a misunderstanding Dean. I was testing the DNA I found under the remnants of one of the victim's fingernails. This was no match to the victim. Before death, the victim seemed to have pulled out some hair, presumably of their attacker, because, as I mentioned, it was under the parts of the nails, after the majority of it had been pulled off.

"It's reasonable to believe that Sarah Blake was somehow involved in this person's murder."

* * *

**A/N What would you think of a chapter from Benny's POV?**


End file.
